


This Unfamiliar Reflection (We’re So Starving In These Lavender Suits)

by wellthisisprettyrisque (collettephinz)



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, frnkiero andthe cellabration
Genre: ASL, AU, Abuse, Brendon's a bit of a dick, Brendon-centric, Cancer, Car Accidents, Coming Out, Consent Issues, DCD2/Decaydance, Dark, F/F, F/M, Frank has his own, Gerard Way has his band, Homelessness, I think that's everything, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Suicide Attempts, Multi, Muteness, No Major Character Death, Partner Betrayal, Patrick Wentz, Pete and Patrick are married, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Undertones, Running Away, Ryan gets high and says cool shit, Sign Language, Slow Build, So is Ryan, Starvation, brendon hates himself cause he wants the d, emaciation, four-way, good luck, illegal drug use, runaways - Freeform, self discovery, selling of drugs, this one's gonna be dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collettephinz/pseuds/wellthisisprettyrisque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(we all know i suck at summaries, so i'm just gonna say this:</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Brendon runs away from home, runs to Chicago, and nearly dies during the harsh winter of the eastern states. It's by pure luck that he's picked up and taken to a safe haven, the home of Pete and Patrick Wentz. He  finds himself, finds what he wants, and finds who he needs inside the frozen, windy city.</em></p><p> </p><p>sweet done)</p><p>((updated weekly))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There’s Something Charming about these Corpses in Front of me

**Author's Note:**

> just as the "summary" says, Brendon runs away and is picked up by our favorite wayward homos
> 
> and really, the tags are there for a reason. i'll give apt warning at the beginning of each chapter for when the specific tag will come in, and where in the work, so you can read and rest easy that you'll know when to expect the more sensitive issues.

Brendon Urie ran away when he was sixteen and halfway to one year older. He was too old to be something worth pitying by the harsh population of New York city, was probably too old to be worth anything in any other city. He was old enough to work a menial job, should have a job, was a freeloader for not having a job, and an even stupider fucking idiot for not having, at the very least, a GED. Brendon knew that if he were to move past what had bruised his jaw and made his own home a nightmare to return to.

Hitchhiking to Chicago from New York had been a nightmare.

Brendon leaned how to suck cock along the way.

It was either suck that asshole trucker’s dick, or be pushed out onto the interstate at seventy-five miles per hour. Brendon had just shut his eyes and let the thing fuck his mouth. It only happened once, but once was enough. 

And when he got to Chicago, he didn’t know who he was anymore.

The city looked the same as New York, but with less individuality and more hopelessness. At least, in New York, you could walk down Broadway, from 42nd to 53rd, and see someone who had ideas for their future. The second Brendon unloaded from the white, overcrowded van that had held a family of illegal Irishmen and women, he could see that everyone here felt dead. As dead and cold as the wind that slept through the city. 

Brendon shouldn’t have ran away in fall. It would get into fifties in New York, same in Chicago, and only get colder. Brendon should have been smarter about this. He should have just bit his tongue, steeled his stance, gone to that fucking camp, and ran away when things were a bit warmer and he had a bit more money in his pocket. Because as of now, he had nothing. He barely had a jacket; the thing draped over his shoulders was his sister’s lavender jacket with sequined hearts on the breast, threadbare and an obvious hand-me-down. His shoes were fucking slip-ons and he didn’t even have a pair of socks.

Chicago could get twenty below, and Brendon didn’t want to die here, but it wasn’t looking like he had much of a choice.

Brendon stomped his feet to warm them up and walked in the direction that had the least amount of people. He found dampened cardboard, but didn’t even have a marker to make a sign so he could beg.

. . .

He got used to eating once a day, maybe two days.

He got used to being so cold that he could feel his breathing freezing in his throat.

He got used to the stares just as much as being outright ignored.

He got used to being a homeless piece of shit, spit on, kicked, thrown out of subways and stores and parks when he was just looking for a place to warm up. He was used to people crossing the street to avoid him. He was sixteen, but he sure as hell was dirty enough to look like a waste of life. The dirt would cover his age and he didn’t bother correcting anyone. He hadn’t stooped so low as to sell his body for food, but he was losing his sense of worth, and thusly, his sense of preservation. Or at least, other things seemed a bit more worth preserving than his white boy Mormon virginity.

But in early January, Brendon chickened out.

He’d advertised, given an idle suggestion to people who passed, hung out in the right alleyways, because he was four days starving and absolutely desperate. He’d sent businessmen the stares he’d seen been given by women and men of the night, had hidden his loyal, pink jacket to show off his skeletal body a bit more, tried to make himself somewhat desirable, something worth seeing twice, though not for horror of his starvation. 

He’d gotten a taker at 3 AM and had tried his best, and gotten on his knees, then corrected and braced himself against the wall, head down, ass out, quiet and still. The man had gotten Brendon’s pants down his legs, hadn’t even stopped to stare at Brendon’s protruding hips, but Brendon fucking chickened out. He’d started crying inexplicably (even though he totally had an explanation, but he wasn’t going to admit it). He’d begged the man to stop, but the man almost hadn’t, had tried to hold Brendon still. He only let go once Brendon started screaming, and Brendon, he’d just… 

He’d ran. 

He’d ran, and ran, and ran.

Pulled his pants up first, of course, but he’d still ran.

Lost his pink jacket. Lost his blanket, the claim he’d made on his dumpster, lost the wooden crate he’d used as a shield from the snow, lost his stolen sneakers, the glass shard he kept at his side as a weapon.

(lost his lavender jacket)

Brendon had lost everything twice over. Now he was in the negative.

So when he was done running, he’d kept walking. He’d walked into a part of the city he’d never been to, though that wasn’t saying much. Upon arriving in Chicago in September, he hadn’t left the very first street he’d ever entered. He hadn’t seen a minuscule amount of Chicago. So he became very lost, very quickly.

Brendon walked for hours and hours, well through the day and into the next night.The temperature dropped to 21 degrees and that was when Brendon couldn’t walk anymore. 

He was too hungry.

He was too cold.

He was too tired.

Brendon found a park bench across the street from a soup kitchen that he wasn’t going to enter because he didn’t want to be picked up by the police and taken home. He saw people inside stop and stare at him, but no one came out to help, and that was fine. He was used to feeling worthless now.

Brendon stopped hugging himself about an hour into sitting. He didn’t care anymore. He dropped his arms and sat with his head hung. He couldn’t feel his arms and legs. He couldn’t feel his hips or his shoulders or his face, couldn’t even feel is tongue or his eyeballs. 

He was dying.

He was dying very, very slowly.

Brendon shut his eyes and let himself fall asleep.

. . .

_“No, no, Pete, I, I can’t find a fucking heartbeat, I can’t find a heartbeat—”_

_“He’s just a fucking kid, I can’t, you have to—“_

_“I’m gonna take him to you, I don’t have room, are you ho—“_

_“The hospital will send him back, he doesn’t want to go—“_

_“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”_

. . .

When Brendon woke up, he was surrounded by warmth, and was still freezing cold.

He hated it.

He wanted to be dead.

Brendon opened his eyes and hated the ceiling he was hanging above him. He hated the air vents and the marks in the plaster, the unmoving ceiling fan,and this green glob that he couldn’t explain. He hated all of it. He wanted to be on that bench, dead. He wanted to be frozen. He wanted to be another sorry attempt at Chicago street art, wanted to be the next Chicago Bean.

He wanted to be dead.

Not wherever he was now.

“Are you awake?”

Brendon turned his head and saw a small man with sharp cheek bones wearing a fedora. 

He shook his head to be a snarky asshole.

The man snorted and stood. “Pete! He’s awake!”

Okay, that was the name Brendon had heard. He’d heard the name “Pete” has he’d died. God, he wished he’d died. He didn’t want to keep doing this. He didn’t want to keep living in the cold, nearly about to let some man fuck him for food. He didn’t want to be a waste of space. He just wanted to be dead.

He heard footsteps and another man rushed into view, a man Brendon assumed was Pete.

Pete’s name lit up in a wide smile, so bright that Brendon was thrown off guard. Pete’s teeth were straight and white and perfect and his hair was bleached blond, obviously fake because Brendon could see black roots. He had a tattoos up and down his arms, and Brendon thought he was crazy for wearing a t-shirt in this weather, but then again, Brendon was pretty sure he was wearing a t-shirt too.

But then Brendon took stock. He could feel softness brushing against his bare chest and legs and privates, soft and fuzzy and definitely not his worn, overused clothes that he’d had on his body since September.

Brendon paled and looked to Pete in disgust and fear. “What did you do to me?” he rasped. He’d had a raspy voice for about a week, would always get a raspy voice when he hadn’t had water or food or anyone to talk to for more than five minutes. And anyway, he was a lot more preoccupied by his lack of clothes in a stranger’s home to be really worried about his voice. “Where are my clothes?” he demanded as menacingly as he could while wrapped up in blankets, naked and afraid. “What did you do to me?” He really wished he had his glass shard. And his pink jacket.

“They’re in the wash,” Pete told him with an easygoing smile, seemingly unperturbed by Brendon’s panic. “They, they were really gross, kid. Really unhealthy for you to be wearing, so Pat and I are washing them for you.”

“Give them back,” Brendon ordered. “I want them back!”

Pete visibly faltered, his expression stuttering through several different thought processes. “They… they’re soaked.”

Brendon tried to sit up so he could be a little more menacing, but found he was too sore.

“You really shouldn’t move too much,” Pete told him. “A good friend of mine found you on a bench, nearly frozen half to death. He brought you here, but then he had to go to work.”

“Pat” snorted. Brendon was assuming fedora-man was Pat.

“Well, he didn’t have to go to work,” Pete corrected sheepishly. “But you know Ryan— he doesn’t like being still for too long.”

“He doesn’t know Ryan, Pete,” Pat told him.

Pete winced. “Sorry,” he told Brendon. “I’m bad at this. You, you were dead, really. You were so cold. We warmed you up as best we could with the clothes on, but they were soaked from the snow and it just wasn’t working. If it helps, Ryan was the one to undress you. He’s really clinical about that sort of thing, so it wasn’t, like, inappropriate. And he’s a good guy, he respects everyone’s privacy, so he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t felt like he absolutely had to.”

That didn’t help.

“You can’t touch me,” he choked out.

Pete nodded. “Are you.. hungry? Or thirsty?”

Brendon felt sick at the mention of food.

“We, we could count your ribs,” Pete told him cautiously. “I have some soup on the stove that we made for you. Soup and crackers and bread and butter. We’ve also got a bunch of water bottles, just to your right.” Pete pointed somewhere to Brendon’s left, and Brendon corrected Pete’s directional order internally. “You should drink as many as you can. As much as you can. I think you’re pretty well warmed up, since you’re awake, and you’re breathing okay, right? You sound like you’re breathing okay. All you need is some food and water and rest.”

“And then what?”

Pete shrugged. “We’ll figure that out later. But you have to know— my home is open for you to find your feet. Get a job, an apartment, a way to live and support yourself. You can stay here as long as you need.”

Brendon snorted. “I’m sixteen.”

Pete’s face was washed of everything and Brendon realized that Pete was the first person in Chicago to know his age. It felt significant. And scary.

“Look, I know you have no idea who I am, but—“

“Pete,” Brendon interrupted. “Your name is Pete. I heard him say it.”

“Who’s him?” Pete asked. “Patrick?”

Brendon shook his head. “The first guy.”

Pete paused. “… The man who found you?”

Brendon nodded.

Pete smiled fondly. “Ryan. Ryan Ross. The kid who saved you. He’s a good guy, you know. He’s a good person. You’d like him a lot.”

“You barely know me,” Brendon mumbled.

Pete winced again and stood. “I, I’ll get you some soup.”

Brendon was left with Patrick.

“I’ll get you some clothes in a second,” Patrick told him. “You really are welcome to stay. Wouldn’t be the first time we sheltered a kid from the world like this. Pete and I are happy to I've you a home.” Patrick stood and Brendon noticed he was walking with a limp.

. . .

Brendon was given a bed in a guest bedroom that was down the hall of Pete and Patrick’s lavish, huge and expensive high rise home. Pete and Patrick, apparently, lived in the Elysian on the fifty-eighth floor. Brendon figured that was a big deal, because the view from the guest bedroom was breath taking, and the guest bedroom was already huge enough. The bed was downey feather and all the sheets were in the seven hundred thread count. The dresser was antique, black oak, and the painting above the black oak headboard was authentic and dated back to the late eighteen hundreds.

Brendon had never seen this much money in thrown into one room. This single room looked more expensive than his church. 

Pete had come in a few seconds ago with a huge bowl of cream of mushroom soup and a plate with saltine crackers on one side, buttered toast on the other, with two water bottles tucked under his arm. He’d placed all of that nourishment on the nightstand to the left of the bed, but Brendon refused to eat it.

Brendon curled up under the softest sheets he’d ever lied in and stared past the glass to the city outside. He’d never seen a view of Chicago from anywhere but the asphalt. He’d never actually seen the city in its entirety outside of postcards in gas stations he’d duck into for temporary shelter. 

It wasn’t New York. That was for sure. It was dirtier and grimier and so much more dangerous. Three airedales had been murdered in the streets the first week Brendon had been a bum. He’d been lucky to last that first month, let alone the next four. Now it was a new year, new him, new ways to drive himself into the ground again and ruin his already ruined life.

The city gleamed back at Brendon, like it was affirming his hopelessness. It twinkled and mocked him. He knew the rich lived high above everyone else so they couldn’t be touched by the sordid hands of people like him. He knew that Pete and Patrick were talking big, maybe thinking about using Brendon to get a percentage off their taxes or whatever. He knew he was just another bottom dweller to them.

Brendon got up and snapped the curtains closed to all the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered the entire left wall. He didn’t want to watch the city mock him. He didn’t want to look over the city that tried to kill him. He was bitter and irrational and cold, tired, so very hungry. Brendon reached over reluctantly and took one of the saltine crackers, eating it like it was causing him physical pain to do so. It wasn’t— he was just stubborn.

But then the crackers tasted so good, and he began to devour them, two to a hand. They were soon gone, and Brendon went onto the slices of toast, and then the soup. The soup was the best part. It warmed his throat and insides and pooled deliciously in his stomach. He’d felt full halfway through the toast, but knew that when you starved, your stomach shrunk to accommodate the fucking nothing inside of you. Well, he was gonna pig out and stretch his stomach to the limits and never worry about going hungry again. When the soup was gone, Brendon dropped back onto the bed and rubbed his belly, smiling to himself when he felt how it had rounded out. He knew he’d be sick in a few minutes, maybe even throw it all back up, but it was worth it, for right now.

Brendon stared up at this ceiling and noted it wasn’t the same as the one in the living room. Aesthetically, it was a duplicate, but the patterns were different. He could find new shapes and faces and objects. He saw the shoreline of Africa and someone that looked like Matt Damon.

Brendon fell asleep when he found the sequined pattern that had been on his lavender jacket right above his head.

. . .

A knock at the guest bedroom door woke him up.

Brendon lurched into awareness, having lost his ability to sleep deeply and peacefully after the months he’d spent in the streets. He couldn’t stay asleep for more than a few hours, usually, but looking outside showed the sun was high above his head, meaning it was midday, at the very least. Brendon was shocked he’d slept so long.

“Kid? You in there?”

Brendon stood, eyeing the door warily. He was in Pete’s clothes. A pair of worn out, soft, plaid patterned sweatpants, and a baggy t-shirt that had a weird skull with eyeballs and a name that started with an “M” just above it, though the rest of the word was faded beyond comprehension. Brendon wasn’t sure what he was wearing, but it was clean and comfortable and he hadn’t been clean and comfortable in a while. He felt bad, though, because he’d dirtied up the expensive sheets.

“Kid…”

He opened he door. “My name is Brendon,” he told Pete. “I’m not telling you my last name.”

Pete looked very excited at knowing Brendon’s name.”Hi, Brendon,” he greeted with a toothy grin, offering his hand to shake. “My name’s Pete Wentz.”

Brendon took his hand and shook.

“Pattycake’s got a rotisserie chicken in the oven, ready to eat. Hungry?”

Brendon grimaced. “Always.”

Pete stepped out of the way and Brendon left the room, looking around the house for the first time.The walls were a pleasant off-white and there were colored photographs lining the wall in a perfectly straight line on either side. There were four more doors past the first one that Brendon was in, and one of them had a lock on it, but the lock wasn’t actually locked, so it seemed kinda pointless.

“What’s down there?” Brendon asked, though he gestured broadly so Pete would hopefully tell him what all the doors were.

“Main bedroom, music room, office, secondary bathroom,” Pete said. “And we’re heading to the kitchen that is next to the dining room that connects to the living room, which is where you enter the apartment. Sound good?”

“I don’t see myself every getting lost, so I think it’s okay,” Brendon said wryly.

Pete chuckled and stepped back for Brendon to go first. “Lead the way, then, since you’re such an expert by now.”

Brendon stepped forward and easily led Pete to the kitchen, mainly following his nose. The kitchen was huge, all black cabinets and cupboards with grey marble and stainless steel. There were two stoves, a double oven, a microwave built in over the oven, and a dishwasher with a fridge that was as wide as three people. Brendon’s mouth watered embarrassingly as he tried to estimate just how much food could be held in there. Hell, he could fit his whole body in there, and then a shit ton of food, and just live with the food forever. 

“You hungry?” Patrick asked, pulling out a gorgeous rotisserie from the oven, golden brown and baked to perfection. It smelled like absolute perfection and his mouth watered even more. Brendon just kinda sat down at the table that seated four, unable to remember his manners in the face of his waning starvation. He’d have to eat for days to fix what he’d done to his body.

Pete giggled and went to cut the chicken while Patrick sat down across from Brendon at the table. Pete laid down plates and silverware and divvied up the chicken, along with green beans and slices apples. A weird combination, but Brendon was far too hungry to criticize. He wolfed down the chicken, the the apples, then the green beans in under ten minutes, stoping only when he started to choke. 

“Probably shouldn’t have given him such substantial food so early on,” Patrick said.

Pete waved Patrick off. “He’ll be fine.”

. . .

Brendon was bent over a toilet thirty minutes later, retching. The delicious taste of the chicken was gone, replaced entirely by stomach acid and horrible regret. 

He hated his body.

It had done nothing but beg and beg for food, cripple Brendon when it didn’t get it’s way, and when it finally did, when Brendon finally fed his fucking body, what did it do? It threw it all up. Tossed it all into the toilet and made his stomach feel like it was inside out. His body was doing this, not Brendon. Brendon had tried to give it the food it wanted, but it just threw a fucking fit instead and made Brendon sick.

“I told you,” Patrick said from the doorway while Pete rubbed Brendon’s back to help him get it all out. “We should’ve stuck with soup. Ryan couldn’t eat solids for two weeks, remember? We had to take him to a doctor for some IVs at one point.”

“You’re not helping, Pat,” Pete sighed. He was watching Brendon with a guilty, apologetic expression, like he thought this was his own fault. It kinda was, actually. Pete should’ve listened to Patrick about feeding Brendon solid foods. Brendon couldn’t be blamed for eating the food set in front of him. He was starving. He was going to eat the warm food put in front of him because that was what starving people did.

Brendon heaved one final time, his entire body shaking with the effort, and he hated his fucking body once more. The fucking thing was going to be the death of his soul. He sat back and wiped the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling older and more worn down than he had in a long while. At least, on the streets, whatever he ate managed to never make him sick like this. What the fuck was his body for, anyways? It was supposed to take the food Brendon gave it and make him well again, god dammit.

“Hey, Brendon,” Pete said softly, his hand still on Brendon’s back, though he wasn’t rubbing it anymore. Brendon found his touch oddly comforting, even though Pete was an absolute stranger. “You feeling better?’

Brendon nodded because he didn’t want to be any actual trouble. “… Kinda hungry,” he confessed. 

Funny that starvation made something as painful and revolting as vomiting still a gateway to more eating. If he’d been younger, he would’ve been too grossed out to eat for another few hours, or until someone baked something worthwhile.

“I’ve got some leftover soup I can nuke,” Patrick told Pete and Brendon. “Make some more toast, maybe put some jam on there instead of butter. That’ll probably make it a lot more tasty, and give you some sugar. Sugar can be good for you sometimes.”

“Am I really being adopted by you guys?” Brendon asked cautiously. It was an impromptu question, definitely something he hadn’t even expected to ask. It was weird to think these random strangers would just pick him up from the streets and take care of him like this.

Pete grinned and looked to Patrick, like a kid asking to keep a puppy, but a lot more hopeful and a lot more serious.

Patrick nodded. “We’re here to help. Our home is your home. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this, so don’t worry— we know what we’re getting into, and we’re okay with it.”

“I want you to meet Ryan,” Pete said. _“So badly.”_

. . .

Brendon woke up, gasping for breath, negative images of hands reaching and taking everything from him burned into his retinas. It was a dream he’d had before, had at least once a week, but that didn’t make it any better. The ceiling spun and Brendon realized he wouldn’t be able to count the stars to ground himself like he usually would.

He reached over the lavender jacket, but remembered it was gone.

. . .

“Okay, so, we’re actually out here to go shopping and run a few more errands,” Pete told Brendon as he drove. It had taken about an hour or so to convince Brendon that it was safe to get in the car with Pete, partially because Pete was a stranger, and partially because Brendon knew Pete pretty well at this point and knew that he was rather reckless with everything except Patrick. Brendon hadn’t been sure about getting in a car with a man who got excited about showing Brendon a video where someone made a grape explode by putting it in the microwave. It had made Pete giggle for over half an hour, even after the video was over, until Patrick had walked into the room with shaking hands and a hallowed expression that made Pete put everything down and lead Patrick into the master bedroom and Brendon hadn’t seen them for the rest of the day. He’d wanted to ask questions, especially now that it was just him and Pete in the car, but figured it wasn’t his place to pry. It was only day four of being a freeloader. He wasn’t even sure if he was truly welcomed in the first place.

Though he was kinda really excited to get some new clothes, if that really was why they were here. Brendon had never worn new clothes, only things that didn’t fit his older brothers and sisters anymore. He hadn’t ever been shopping for new clothes. Everything old could be refitted and reused.

Hell, they could even have a new kid and forget Brendon had ever left.

Maybe they already had forgotten. 

Pete pulled up in the valet parking for a huge indoor mall, filled with people, a few slipping on the ice that had gathered around the entrances from pileup of snow, melted snow, and rain. Pete led Brendon into the mall, making sure Brendon didn’t slip either, then brought him down the mall to a really, really nice clothing store that Brendon didn’t recognize. Even the mannequins in the windows looked better than Brendon did on Sunday morning. Brendon was envious of how good those mannequins looked, even if they didn’t have heads.

“What size are you?” Pete asked as he went into the young mens’ section. He was looking over some t-shirts that looked softer than the sheets in Brendon’s new bed, and that was a shocking observation. 

Brendon wanted to answer, but suddenly his stomach felt off. He’d had cereal for breakfast, chicken noodle soup for lunch, but he still felt queasy. He stopped walking and held his stomach, frowning in confusion and nauseousness. Brendon found a stool that could also be a bench and plopped down, holding his stomach, brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what was wrong.

The cushion he was sitting on gave way and Brendon looked to his right to see Pete next to him.

“You okay, Brendon?” Pete asked softly.

Brendon shuddered. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Pete nodded. “Do you know what size you are?”

Brendon nodded.

“Okay,” Pete hummed. “Why don’t you tell me and I’ll just grab some things, swing them by you so we know you like them, and then you just try on one pair of pants, one shirt, and one jacket, so we know we got you the right size. Sound okay to you?”

Brendon just nodded and tried not to throw up on the nice floor. This one square foot of tile had to cost more than everything Brendon had ever owned. Pete showed him so many outfits that he lost count, but Brendon just nodded his head to all of them. He wasn’t going to be picky and he wasn’t going to be difficult. It all looked the same to him.

He just wanted his lavender jacket.

. . .

“I’m stopping by my office,” Pete told him. “You’re sixteen, right? Have you gotten a GED or should I look into getting you to finish some sort of education? I’m not sure if you can get a GED without parental permission, but I’ll bet I can swing something under the table if I have to. I’m not afraid of this fucked up educational system.”

Brendon just shrugged as he played with the fingerless gloves Pete had bought him. He ran his thumb over the hem and wondered why someone would make something so useless. Gloves were meant to keep your fingers warm. These were pointless.

Brendon pulled them onto his hands and found that he really liked the way they looked.

He glanced up, saw Pete was watching him with a smirk, and blushed. He looked back down to his hands and almost took off the gloves. He wasn’t above accepting charity. All his life, he had given aid to anyone who needed it because that was what his parents and god had taught him to do when he was met with people in need. And now he was one of those people, and he was so very tired. He didn’t mind accepting some help, so long as it didn’t go too far.

“What’s your job?” Brendon asked, partly curious, and the rest to be polite.

“I run a record label,” Pete replied. “Decaydance Industries, though now it’s been shortened to D-C-D-2. We sign musicians and bands and promote them and get their careers going. I have a team of composers and writers, too, because we’re in charge of writing songs for the bands that can’t write their own work.”

“That’s really cool,” Brendon mumbled. He’d never actually thought about his future, but he’d always dreamed of preforming. “Can you play any instruments?”

Pete nodded. “Bass guitar. A little guitar. I mostly write lyrics. What about you?”

“I play, uh…” Brendon looked down at his fingers, ready to count it out. “Piano, guitar, bass guitar, keyboard, and drums.” Five fingers, five instruments. Good job, Brendon, you remembered everything. 

Pete let out a low whistle. “You know your stuff. You should really get to know Ryan. He plays a lot of instruments too. He could probably teach you more!”

Brendon felt his interest being peeked at the thought. “Learn more?”

“Ryan plays everything,” Pete sam with a grin. “I mean, he plays everything you play, and then some. Banjo, accordion, ukulele… He’s a virtuoso. He’s a great lyricist, too, and my best composer, next to Patrick. He’s some sort of wunderkind, you know? A complete natural. I’m talking him into recording a solo album for himself, even if he doesn’t, like, actually put it out there. He has these lyrics that he’s written that he refuses to show anyone, special stuff that I keep my hands off of just to respect him. I mean, technically, I own the stuff he writes in a certain place, in his office, on the main computer? But I gave him this special folder he can put his more sensitive stuff in, and I won’t touch it. I can respect that shit he has in his head.”

Brendon listened to Pete with dull attention, enjoying the soft rise and fall of Pete’s voice when he became impassioned, however mildly, by what he was speaking off. Pete had a lot of admiration for Ryan, and Brendon wanted to find out why. Especially since Ryan had been then to find him. Maybe he’d help Brendon find the lavender jacket.

Pete pulled up in front of a gate in front of a huge building and the guard didn’t need his ID, just waved Pete through with a greeting of, “Have a good day, Mr. Wentz.” Brendon’s eyes went wide as it dawned on him that, not only was Pete really rich, but he was also important. Like, recognizably important. 

Pete parked in a parking spot marked “DCD2 President,” and turned off the car. He got out of his seat and waited, expecting Brendon to follow. Brendon faltered, but eventually climbed out of the car. He was led inside the building, where Pete had to pass two security checkpoints that included him swiping an ID, and then they were in an elevator, leading to one of the top floors that you could only get to once an ID was swiped again. Brendon was wide eyed and shocked this whole ordeal, wondering why music was so closely guarded.

“A few years ago, someone broke in and stole the works of one of our best,” Pete told him after Brendon asked the right question. “Produced the whole album in a week and debuted it. We couldn’t prove it was stealing because the work wasn’t copyrighted to us, it was a private project, but it did the trick. Made me move the building. The safety and peace of mind of my employees is worth the extra cost.”

Brendon paused. “Was the stolen work Ryan’s?”

Pete just grimaced and nodded tightly.

“Is he okay?”

“It was years ago,” Pete repeated. But that didn’t answer Brendon’s question, so he asked again:

“Is he okay?”

Pete sighed. “… He’s getting better. He keeps most of his work in a book at this point. A little leather thing that he hides in the bag he keeps with himself at all times. I’m pretty sure he has a go-bag in his car.”

“A what?” Brendon asked as the elevator dinged to show it was five floors from their destination.

“A go-bag.” Pete smiled quirkily. “It’s a bug-out bag, too. In case he has to leave or run away again, he has a bag pre-packed and ready to go. I have one, too, for me and Patrick, just in case. You should too. Especially since you’re staying with us.”

“Are all of you that paranoid?”

“No,” Pete said. The elevator doors opened and Pete stepped out. “We’re just realistic.”

Brendon became distracted by the music that floated through the speakers surrounding him. There were cubicles laid out front, but all the cubicles were the size of, like, four cubicles kept together. They were huge, and all of them were decorated individualistically, probably because different people had their own thing going. 

“I have my own office, between Patrick’s and William’s,” Pete said. “Ryan is next to William because he liked the windows in that office. I kinda wanted him close by, so we could tap messages through the walls like we would when he lived with us, but the windows were apparently a lot more appealing than camaraderie, so whatever.”

Brendon giggled. “You seem upset by that.”

Pete paused. “… I like you laugh, kid. Make sure to do that more often.”

Brendon blushed.

“I’m gonna introduce you to Ryan. We’re, like, thousands into this, and you still haven’t met your hero!”

“Hero?” Brendon repeated as he was led through the halls. “How is he my hero?”

Pete shrugged. “I mean, he just is. You should’ve seen him, Brendon, when he brought you to me. Should have heard him over the phone. He was terrified. He was shaking, and it wasn’t from the cold. He was holding you in his arms, and honest to god, it looked like his world was ending. Like he was watching himself die.”

Brendon found he couldn’t respond to that.

Pete rapped his knuckles on the door of an office that had a simple black slate engraved with white letters that read, “ROSS, R.” It was oddly stiff and professional, and when Brendon glanced down at the other office doors, he saw they all had decorated name tags that were pretty and personalized and friendly. 

Ryan’s was blank. Almost like he didn’t want you to know him.

There wasn’t an answer, so Pete knocked again.

Brendon could suddenly hear a crash, like papers being knocked over, and maybe a few books scattering. There was a sudden explosion of sound, a stunted drum beat against some sort of chiming bells. Then they were shut off and the door was flung open.

In the doorway was a tall, skinny man with beautiful, golden eyes and fluffy, curly brown hair that covered his whole face. He was wearing a baggy, argyle sweater and black skinny jeans with bright red trucks. He had clunky, blue headphones covering his ears, but the headphone cord lead to an empty jack. Brendon wondered if he’d had the headphones plugged in, but had forgotten and yanked them out and that was where the music came from. Brendon loved just past Ryan and saw that there were books and papers all over the floor like a second carpet. 

Beautiful boy blinked owlishly up at Pete, then looked down to Brendon. When he saw Brendon, his eyes went wide, and he gasped.

“Fuck, fuck, it’s you!” he exclaimed, lurching backwards, holding the door open. “Fuck, hi, uh…” Beautiful boy glanced to Pete, then asked, more than stated, “Brendon? That’s what Pete said you name was.” He smiled shakily. “It, it’s so good to see you. Especially like this. Not cold and blue a-and…” A visible shudder ran through beautiful boy’s body, and Brendon was entranced with how easy he was to read.

Fuck, Brendon was sixteen. Love was hormones and bad decisions, and beautiful boy was the worst decision he could ever make. Brendon dug his nails into his wrist, wanting it to hurt, wanting to make himself bleed. What he was feeling was wrong. He knew that for a fact. He wasn’t going to let himself fall deeper and deeper into the sin that had ruined his life once already.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” the bland boy said.

“Brendon, this is Ryan,” Pete said with a prideful grin. “My number one composer and lyrical genius. He’s got more talent in his left pinky toe than nearly every musician you’ll find in the top fifty combined. Also the prettiest doll in the business.”

Bland boy flushed and frowned, but Brendon didn’t find the frown in the least bit intimidating, like he was sure it was meant to be. Brendon was mostly upset with the anxiety roiling in his gut.

He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe it had happened like this. 

Living in the streets had made it so easy to forget why he’d even ran away in the first place, had made it easier to ignore the horrible thoughts in his head. His dick hadn’t made an appearance in a fucking long time, because when you’re dying, you can’t really get it up. He hadn’t even had the dreams that drove him to the priest, to his parents, to redemption that didn’t exist. He didn’t have to worry about being a messed up piece of shit.

But now?

Staring him down?

Temptation.

Brendon didn’t walk into the office at first when regular boy stepped aside to let Pete in. Bland boy’s hair drifted into his face, brushing his button nose that was pink with cold even though Brendon could feel the heat was on. There was a slight tint to bland boy’s cheeks, too, and his lips were shiny and slick with spit, like he’d been gnawing on his lower lip.

Brendon scowled to himself.

Bland boy saw the scowl and probably assumed the wrong thing. Regular boy looked away quickly, glancing to Pete like he was trying to pick up on a cue that didn’t even exist. Brendon was getting pissed, but he wasn’t sure if it was at bland boy or himself.

“So, uh, what happened?” bland asked. “I just, I-I got you in the car, got you to Pete… I couldn’t stay long. I had to be home because my roommate was coming back from the hospital and I had to get everything ready for him. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Brendon asked, a tone of harshness spoiling the question. Pete and Bland noticed, and Pete frowned, looking a bit upset. Brendon was a glass wall. You could see right through him, but never change what he’d done. Walls protected actions, even if you could see everything. 

“I, uh…” Bland looked away. “I, I have a lot of work to do. Pete? I’ll get that sheet music on your desk by Monday. Uh, the, the demo is gonna be finished soon, just have mix it right. Something’s iffy with the vocals, and…” He whipped his head left and right really quickly like he was thinking, hair bouncing and hitting his neck. Brendon dug crescents into his skin and grit his teeth.

“No problem,” Pete said softly. “Look, hey— me and Pat are making a big dinner this Saturday, something big because we want to get rid of all the stuff in our fridge before the next session, where we’ll have to change his diet. You’re invited, as always. It’ll be nice to have you. The house misses you.”

Bland glanced to Brendon, then just shook his head. “I’m busy that night. Sorry, Pete. Talk to you later.”

Bland didn’t usher them out of the room, but he got close. Pete turned to Brendon with a completely bewildered expression, and asked, “what the hell was all that for? Why’d you treat Ryan like that? He’s a good guy, he saved you! Why would you do that?”

Brendon just shrugged and looked down to make sure that he wasn’t actually bleeding. 

Fortunately, he was.


	2. It’s Hard to Learn to Fly When All these Feathers have Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brendon meets the gang and swears he isn't gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i'm like pounding this thing out and it's crazy that i'm writing like 4-5k a day and i always make sure to post every seven thousand so 
> 
> like 
> 
> here's an early chapter
> 
> slow clap that shit out or whatever
> 
> can't promise it'll happen again, but here you go

“I don’t know why you would do that,” Pete sighed as he drove Brendon downtown to pick up an Italian dinner, specifically requested by Patrick back at home. “Ryan, he’s a good guy! The best guy. He can get grumpy and shit, and he sometimes drinks a little too much, but that’s completely understandable once you know what happened to him. I just don’t know why you’re acting like this! Like that. You barely know the guy and—“

“I barely know you,” Brendon huffed, not afraid to interrupt Pete. “We don’t know each other at all. Hell, I could call the cops on you. Get you for kidnapping, and they’d never think twice.” Brendon didn’t mean that. He was still reeling after meeting the bland boy.

Pete’s expression dropped into something unreadable. “You’re gonna threaten me?”

Pete’s voice was low and terrifying and Brendon shuddered, looking away, out the window, wanting to only see the city go by faster than he’d ever seen it go and not hear how fucking bone chilling Pete sounded.

“Kid, you’re in my house out of the goodness of my heart, and Patrick’s heart. But the second you try to get my husband in trouble is the second my patience is gone.”

“Husband?” Brendon frowned. “You guys are married?”

“Is there a problem with that?” Pete asked.

Brendon shook his head, unable to speak. 

“Patrick and I have been happily married for seven years,” Pete said. “Since I was twenty-two. Found the kid playing jazz guitar at a Christmas thing.”

“How old was he?” Brendon asked, because playing jazz guitar at a Christmas thing sounded juvenilely suspicious.

Pete cleared his throat. “… We waited till he was 18, if that’s what you mean.”

Brendon snorted. “Jailbait.”

Pete frowned. “I’m about to slam on the brakes, kid, if you don’t watch your mouth.”

“Are you kidding?” Brendon snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Should’ve just let me die instead of bringing me to that bland asshole.”

“What the hell is your problem with Ryan?” Pete demanded.

Brendon just scowled and kept looking out the window with a petulant expression that was normal for a teenager struggling with an identity and sexuality crisis. He wasn’t going to tell Pete a god damn thing about how Brendon had fallen in love at first sight, like fucking Romeo or something, too stupid to get his head out of his ass and know that Juliet would be his death, his suicide outlet. Brendon didn’t want to make it out of the frozen streets only to put himself right back out there with vehemence, driven away by the bland boy’s perfect, golden eyes, those pink lips, and that adorable nose.

Fuck, Brendon was pissed. He kicked the floor, scuffed his shoes along the beautifully sculpted interior of Pete’s Mercedes, and tried not to say anything any more stupid than he’d already said, because he didn’t want to hit his head on the dash when Pete finally got fed up and did slam on the brakes. 

“Do you actually wanna stay with us?” Pete asked, sounding oddly vulnerable. “You can leave, if you really want.”

“I wanna stay,” Brendon grumbled. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“We’re gonna have to do some bonding exercises over dinner,” Pete sighed. “And you’re going to call Ryan and apologize and ask him over for dinner.”

Brendon just rolled his eyes and told himself that he’d do no such thing.

. . .

Patrick ate his pasta and watched Pete struggle to figure out a good game that would help Brendon get over his shitty attitude. See? Brendon knew he was being an asshole. He just didn’t care enough to stop.

“Okay, so, I-I’m thinking we go around the table and say something simple about ourselves, cause all these other ones require either drinking, or a fucking card game,” Pete huffed, finally looking up from his phone. He caught Patrick’s eye across the table, and something flashed through his gaze when he saw that Patrick’s hand was shaking as he held the fork. Patrick looked down at his food to break the gaze and Pete looked back to his phone as well. “We’ll limit it to three rounds,” he said. “And participation is mandatory,” Pete added with a pointed look to Brendon. “Or no ice cream for dessert.”

“I don’t need your ice cream. But I’ll join you guys, geez.”

Patrick smirked down this food. “He’s almost as stubborn as you, Pete.”

Pete made a face, then sat back and started to eat his lasagna. “Okay, so, introductions, and then one fact. Like, uh… my name is Pete Wentz. I’m thirty-two years old and I’m president of a record label. I’m married to Patrick Stump, now Patrick Wentz, and…” He shrugged. “I used to play in a band. Fall Out Boy.”

Patrick smirked again and even chuckled. “Hi, I’m Patrick Wentz. I’m twenty-seven (holy shit, Pete, fucking jail bat for real), composer, and I used to sing in a band called Fall Out Boy.”

“Is that what happened?” Brendon asked. “You two met through the Christmas jazz and made a band and then got married?”

Patrick nodded. “Finished high school in a van while touring.”

Brendon’s eyes went wide in jealous awe. “That sounds amazing…”

“Your turn,” Pete told Brendon. 

Brendon sat up, then paused, thinking. “Uhm… My name’s Brendon. I’m not gonna tell you my last name so you can’t try to send me away. I ran away from home. And, uh… I, I broke my nose when I was younger and now one of my nostrils is messed up and I never bothered to ask to have it fixed cause I like singing and I have no idea what it could do to screw up my voice.”

Patrick snorted. “That’s cute.”

Brendon kept eating his risotto. 

“My turn,” Pete giggled. “Okay, so… Uh, when my nudes got posted, I quit the band for three days. Then everyone complimented my dick, and, and I totally brought the band back. So that’s how I almost let my dick rule my life.”

“Almost?” Patrick chortled. “It still does. Always has. Jesus, sometimes you’ll miss work cause your dick decides it doesn’t want to be anywhere but in my ass.”

Brendon flushed bright red and accidentally knocked over his empty glass.

“Careful, Pat,” Pete advised with an easygoing grin. “Poor Brendon here, I suspect, is a bit of a virgin when it comes to us homosexuals. Such a shame, too. He’s got the prettiest eyes. I’ll bet he’s really popular with the men and ladies alike.”

“Bet he got all the prom e-vites,” Patrick added, playing along. “Okay, so , my second fact…” He shrugged. “I work under my husband in more ways than one, and I’ve never been happier, though…” He trailed off, playing with his pasta with his fork. “I do miss touring, sometimes. We work with our old bandmates, so it’s just, like, weird to be around them, but not be actively creating and preforming music.” He sighed wistfully. “I know why we don’t anymore, but I just really miss it sometimes. It sucks. How everything worked out.”

“But you’re happy, right?” Brendon asked as he noticed Pete’s expression steadily fall. He wasn’t sure why, but he really needed to make sure that Pete wouldn’t get too hurt by this. And he kinda wanted to make sure Patrick was okay with his life, too.

“Happier than happy, yes,” Patrick hummed. “I already said that. I just miss being happy in that way, too.”   
“There’s nothing wrong with missing something like that,” Pete mumbled, looking down at his food, eyes heavy with something. Pete jumped when Patrick’s body lurched awkwardly, so Brendon figured Patrick had kicked him under the table.

“Dear husband,” Patrick said in a silky tone. “Would you do me a favor and actually smile? I married you, didn’t I? And I was the first one to agree to the end of the band because I knew it had to be done. It’s fine.”

“Why’d it have it have to be done?” Brendon asked curiously.

“Your turn to tell us a fact, Brendon,” Patrick told him with no room for argument.

Brendon pursed his lips, unhappy about being in the dark, but went back to thinking of a fact. Then he remembered the jibe with the homosexuality, and said, “I’m not a virgin.”

“Congratulations,” Patrick drawled. “Me neither.”

“I’m totally a virgin.” Pete was smiling like a goof and obviously trying to lighten things up again, though Brendon didn’t see why the needed to be lightened at all, but whatever. He wasn’t being included in something big, so he wasn’t going to fret over it. He was trying to convince himself that he didn’t care. 

“If you’re a virgin after the other night, then I’m a girl,” Patrick stated with a flat expression.

Pete cackled unattractively and Patrick just snorted.

“Okay, okay, last one,” Pete giggled. “Uhm… I may enjoy wearing eyeliner more than an adult man should admit. Like, I really enjoy makeup. Especially since Ryan taught me how to do it right, before that show in Maryland? God, what he did made my eyes pop like a god damn helium bomb. I looked like fucking fire, Patrick, don’t you remember? Everyone was staring at me, even the fucking stage jockeys couldn’t look away. And at the end of the show? You pinned me to that wall, which is still fucking impressive for a guy your size against me, a-and you just—“

“We have a guest, Pete,” Patrick interrupted with a devilish smirk.

Brendon was blushing furiously and couldn’t even voice how grateful he was to Patrick of interrupting Pete before Pete said anything Brendon wouldn’t be able to forget.

“Okay, my last one is gonna be how much I love composing,” Patrick said, going back to his food almost reluctantly. “I mean, not a lot of people get to live their dream, and then some, but that’s what I’m doing. I got the stardom and touring and now I’m still able to make music, regardless of everything else. And I just feel really lucky that not only can I keep making music, but I keep getting to work with my friends and family. That’s just the best way to live, you know?”

“Making hella cash isn’t bad either,” Pete added with a teasing grin.

Patrick snorted around his pasta.

“My last one is…” Brendon looked down at the table again. “… I don’t miss my family.”

Pete and Patrick both paused, being quiet to let Brendon sort out whatever it was he wanted to say, if anything. Brendon appreciated it.

“I-I’m not ready to say why I ran away,” Brendon began almost shakily, like he was nervous. That had to be because he was nervous. “But I just didn’t feel safe. Didn’t feel at home. My, my family is big. I had five siblings, and I was the youngest. So I got the last of everything, you know? My parents were jaded by the time they had me. Mormonism is fucked up for denying birth control and shit. I just didn’t feel loved, a-and then I told my parents _something big_ , and my dad, he…” Brendon trailed off, shuddered, then choked out, “h-hit me. He hit me.”

Pete stiffened and Patrick slowly set down his fork that it was a weapon he wanted to avoid using.

“Kids don’t deserve to be hit,” Patrick told him with alarming calmness. “Not by their parents. Not for any reason.”

Brendon shrugged. “I mean, I told them a really bad thing. Like, really _really_ bad. I-I’m lucky that they didn’t lock me away forever and just deny I’d ever existed. I ran away when they tried to send me to a camp to fix me, and he only hit me once. It wasn’t that bad.” Brendon knew he shouldn’t be defending his father, but Pete and Patrick didn’t know his dad and they didn’t know what Brendon had done. Sometimes, Brendon found himself agreeing with the punishment, even if he hadn’t liked it. Even if it had made him scared to go home. Even if it had made him feel like he didn’t have a home at all.

“You’re a good kid, Brendon,” Patrick said. 

“I’m gonna ask you for your last name,” Pete said, words being forced past grit teeth. “So I can find that asshole and have him arrested for child abuse. Have him sent to jail where he’ll get fucking slaughtered, like he deserves.”

“Pete,” Patrick interrupted harshly.

Brendon was watching Pete with wide, fearful eyes.

Pete’s shoulders slumped.

Patrick stood. “I think it’s time for bed.”

Brendon nodded and all but ran for the guest room.

. . .

“A parent hitting their child isn’t okay,” Pete told him the next morning. “So I won’t apologize for threatening your pathetic excuse of a father. But I will apologize for scaring you. So I’m sorry.”

Good enough.

. . .

Bland ended up coming over for dinner anyways.

Brendon helped set the table and tried not to begrudge the fact that Bland was there. Thankfully, a lot of other people were, too. Unthankfully, there were lot of them. Two really tall guys, one of them Hispanic, the other with long, flowing hair and a pretty smile. There was a short guy with a spitfire attitude and a smile like acid, standing with a skinny dude with bleached blond hair and angular features, a huge, scary blond man, two skinny, short guys, a man with a pretty face, a dude wearing flip flops, a tattooed red head with a big beard, and a man with dark, curly, wild hair that was tied in a bun.

Eleven strangers.

They’d all walked into the apartment at the same time, laughing and talking and being loud, and Brendon had hidden in his room for five minutes before Pete had pulled him away from his sanctuary with a request to be a human being and actually interact with other human beings. There was a distinct lack of women in the room, and Brendon was terrified to think that everyone Pete and Patrick knew could be gay.

Wouldn’t that just be the most ironic piece of shit to ever find its way onto Brendon’s front porch.

Setting the table with Patrick had been the best way to avoid talking to all the men he didn’t know. The only people he knew were Pete, Patrick, and Bland. Those weren’t very good odds and Brendon wasn’t excited at the prospect of being surrounded by strangers while he ate.

“Dude, hey!” one of the skinny, short dudes greeted, just barreling into the kitchen like he owned it. His friend was behind him, though his friend was much less colorful. The guy who had greeted Brendon had bright pink hair, while the other dude was just a brunette with a pale, bare face. “I’m Josh,” the pink-haired dude greeted, sticking out his hand. “We’re one of Pete’s bands, just thought we’d introduce ourselves. Oh, and that’s Tyler. Tyler Joseph. I’m Josh Dun. There, I’m done.”

Brendon took Josh’s hand and looked to Tyler, who grinned wide, showing perfectly white teeth.

“It’s always good to be proactive with these things,” Josh continued. 

“What kind of band are you guys?” Brendon asked.

“Rap.” Tyler spoke for the first time, still grinning. “Kinda. We’re kinda a rap band. We’ve got a retro-techno-pop-edgy-grunge-cutesy sound. It’s weird, yeah, and we don’t have a word for it, neither does Pete, but we’re kinda popular these days with our latest album, and it’s awesome.”

“I like what we have going,” Josh added almost wistfully.

Brendon only nodded, not knowing what else he could stay.

Behind him, there was a clatter, and Patrick cursed. All three of them snapped to attention, looking to Patrick, who had dropped a plastic bowl. Patrick was hiding his hands, cradling them to his chest, teeth tearing into his lower lip like he was in pain.

“Hey, Pat,” Tyler greeted softly, moving forward to pick up the bowl. He set that on the counter. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Patrick said stiffly. He moved past Tyler and started stirring the tomato sauce he was using for the homemade pizza that was for dinner. “You can go back to everyone else, okay? I’ve got this. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Tyler opened his mouth to say something, but Patrick leveled him with a sharp glare, and that shut the other man up. “I only need Brendon’s help,” Patrick told him. “Can you give us some room?”

Tyler hesitated. Josh came forward and pulled him away.

“I’m fucking fine,” Patrick said.

Brendon heard someone yell, “ _time to get fucking smashed!_ ” from the living room, and wondered how bad this night was going to be.

. . .

Turned out, “getting fucking smashed” was playing Super Smash Bros. and Mario Cart.

Brendon got introduced to William Beckett and Gabriel Saporta, two different musicians. William was under Pete’s label, but Gabe was an old friend from the road. Brendon also met Mikey Way, Bob Bryar, and Frank Iero. 

“I have my own band,” Frank giggled. He always giggled. His giggle was weird, too. High pitched and manic, like he was thinking of something psychotic or murderous or just crazy. He giggled like he was gonna blow something up. Brendon found himself grinning overtime that noise slipped past Frank’s white teeth. “Frank Iero and the Cellabration. It’s pretty fucking rad, and I’m proud of it.”

“How do you know Pete?” Brendon asked.

Frank pointed to Mikey Way. “Pete fucked him.”

Brendon paused. “But… Patrick?”

“Pete was in a bad place, Mikey didn’t know.” Frank shrugged. “Patrick got over it fairly quickly, didn’t even put him in the dog house. It was cause something bad happened with Pete before. Patrick didn’t blame him. Pete had gotten drunk and made a mistake, but Mikey was really good for him. Mikey went through some of the same shit. It’s a long story.”

Brendon just nodded along, trying to take all of that in. “… And how do you know Mikey?”

Frank grinned wider. It was almost scary.

“He’s got Gerard under his fucking thumb,” Bob said from where he was sitting, eyes trained on the screen. “Piece of shit. Course you would score someone like that. A closeted nymphomaniac with a heart of gold and a penchant for bruises.”

“What?” Brendon asked.

“I’m with Mikey’s brother,” Frank giggled.

“Mikey’s brother!”Pete called out from across the living room. “Fuck, that reminds me! Mikey! Where is that starving artist?”

“He’s in Vancouver, speaking at a comic convention,” Mikey said in monotone. 

“Fucking prick,” Pete laughed as he beat the crap out of Tyler’s character (who cried a protest that sounded like an overweight whale). “I gotta ask him about a project I hired him on. Do you know if he has anything for the album of Bilvy’s next album?”

“You got me artwork by the Gee Wee?” William asked with his mouth agape in shock and awe. “I love you, Pete!”

“He has three drafts on the table, last I checked,” Mikey told William.

“Oh god, I’m gonna lose so fucking hard,” the ginger man groaned.

“Your candy ass is mine, Andy,” Pete jeered.

“Fuck you, I’m my own man!” “Andy” shouted back. But then he threw the controller at the floor when he lost. “Fuck this. Ross! It’s your turn.”

“I’m good,” Bland said softly. He’d been sitting at the dining table, talking quietly with Patrick for almost the whole dinner. They’d been discussing something in hushed voices, expressions serious and not at all matching the mirth of everyone out in the living room, all crowded together and shouting at the television screen. “I think you guys should make the announcement soon…”

Pete’s expression suddenly sobered. “I need a drink,” he said abruptly, standing and dropping his controller to the side carelessly.

Bland winced and Patrick just sighed, looking very old and tired. Pete disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with a bottle of wine. He didn’t have a glass to pour it in, and made no move to share it. But Bland stood and gently took the bottle from Pete’s hand, whispering something to him.

Pete sighed as well, shoulders slumped.

“Everyone?” he called out. “I’m, uh… I’ve got something to announce.”

Someone paused the game and all heads turned to Pete.

“So, as you know,” Pete began, wringing his fingers together. “Patrick won his battle with laryngeal cancer just a year ago.” There was a resounding expression of triumph and even a few people clapped and cheered, throwing fists in the air for Patrick. But Patrick’s face remained somber. Pete took in a long, shaky breath. “I asked all of you to come here so I could tell you that… there has been another discovery. A second tumor. And it’s bigger. It’s more aggressive and growing faster than the last, and—“ 

Pete cut himself off, blinking rapidly like he was trying to get rid of something in his eyes. Brendon sat there in shock, completely blindsided. He knew what was coming, and it made his chest hurt. He couldn’t image how Pete and Patrick’s actual friends were feeling.

“The, the cancer is back, guys,” Pete continued, softer, more defeated. “He’s starting chemo again in February. In a week. And it…” he shook his head, smiling wetly. “It’s not looking good.” 

Everyone was deadly silent.

“So, uh…” Pete threw his hands up from his sides in surrender. “Just, we wanted you guys to know. The people who were with us when Patrick first got better supported us with everything they had, and we’re grateful for that, and we wanted to keep you in the know. For all of you newbies, we just… You guys are family, yeah? And family should know about these sorts of things. Nothing is actually expected of any of you, we just… We just wanted you to know. So you won’t ask questions when things… W-when things look bad again.”

“Fuck cancer,” Josh choked out, voice strangled like he was crying.

Pete nodded his agreement. “Sorry for ruining the night.”

“No, no,” the afro-bun guy interjected, standing and moving towards Pete. “Pete, dude, it’s okay. I, we, we’re glad you told us. We’re glad you wanted to keep us in the loop. And I can’t speak for everyone here, but I am happy to play the same role as last time. So, any sessions, doctors appointments, any dizzy spells or nausea, I’m here. I’m here, and my car is here, and I’ll be happy to be chauffeur to the Stumps again.”

“Me too,” Andy cut in. “Cause Joe’s not gonna be your guys’ favorite again.”

“Joe was never our favorite,” Patrick snorted, oddly in control about dying from cancer. Brendon guessed that it was easier the second time around. “Pete and I don’t have favorites.”

“Bullshit,” “Joe” snorted.

“You’re bullshit,” Patrick shot back with a small smile. “And your little dog, too.”

“Are you gonna die?” the pretty man asked from beside the one with flip flops. They’d been attached to Bland’s side for most of the night. Flip-flops elbowed the pretty man in the side and hissed some sort of reprimand, but Patrick just waved it off.

“Not planning on dying,” he said. “Sorry, but Pete will crash and burn without me.”

Pete tried to laugh, but it ended up sounding more like a sob.

Patrick grimaced. “Look, let’s… We’re just gonna hope for the best. I beat it last time. I can beat it again.” He stood from the table. “And I’ll prove that by beating every single one of you in Mario Cart, so pull your big boy up on and see if you can take me on.” He grabbed and controller and sat on the sofa, obviously expecting everyone to follow his lead and lighten up. 

Brendon looked down at his hands and wondered if he could help.

“Brendon,” Patrick called out. “Get over here so I can whip your ass. I don’t care if you’re sixteen— I’m gonna fucking own you. I”m gonna revert into my ten-year-old gaming midget mode and fucking own your ass.”

“I want in on this,” Frank said, jumping onto the sofa.. “Us midgets gotta show them giant fuckers who’s boss.”

Pretty man joined the game too, and Brendon learned his name was Spencer, while the dude with the flip-flops was Jon. Jon and Spencer kept trading their controllers and pressing their hips together on the couch. Brendon couldn’t tear his eyes from them.

“Are you guys gay?” Brendon blurted out the question like it had been choking him, which it kinda had been. It had bee choking his thoughts. He’d lost the last three rounds against various people because no one really felt like they knew Brendon well enough to take the controller from him, and Brendon didn’t want to give it up.

“Who guys?” Frank asked. “Us guys?” he also asked, looking to Mikey. “I mean, I’m gay and shit, but with this guy?”

“No,” Brendon denied. “Them.” He pointed to Spencer and Jon.

Jon laughed and Spencer went bright red like he was angry or embarrassed.

“I’ll have you know I’m happily married to a beautiful woman,” Spencer huffed. “And like I’d go for Jon if I was gay, anyways. His farts are fucking insane, no way would I want to be in bed with that thing.”

“God. I’m wounded,” Jon cackled. “You say such cruel words, Spence. My heart. She weeps.”

“Shut up,” Spencer grumbled.

“How many of you guys actually straight?” Brendon almost demanded, tense.

Andy, Joe, Bob, Tyler, Josh, Spencer, Jon, Bob.

Brendon gaped. “Seven out of, of fifteen? Less than half of you guys are straight!”

“Is that a problem?” Bob asked with a deceivingly even expression. 

“And you didn’t count yourself,” Pete said with a teasing smirk. “Something you wanna tell us, Brendon? Maybe a closet you wanna leave? I know it can get a bit cramped in there…”

Brendon threw the controller aside and rushed into the guest room, slamming the door shut and staring out the window at the city, breathing hard. His chest hurt and his palms were clammy as his hands shook. Brendon sat on his bed and wrung his fingers together, clenching and unclenching to try and calm down. There was a soft murmur of voices from main rooms and Brendon didn’t care if he looked stupid for leaving like that. Pete had gone too far. Brendon wasn’t gay. He, he just wasn’t.

Brendon slammed his fist into the duvet, then kicked the nightstand as hard as he could.

There was a knock at his door.

“Go away!” he shouted, ever the teenager. “Just, just fuck off! I don’t wanna come out!” He winced at his choice of words, but knew he couldn’t take them back. No one answered, and no one made some joke about Brendon’s bad chosen words, so it couldn’t be Patrick, and it couldn’t be Pete.

There was a second knock.

Brendon scowled. “Go away!”

Silence.

Then a third knock.

Brendon stomped over and tore the door open.

Bland was standing in the doorway.

Brendon almost slammed the door in his face.

“Pete wanted me to come talk to you,” Bland told him with a calm look in his eyes. “You know he didn’t mean it like that, right? Pete just says shit to make people laugh because he thinks laughing is the most important part of your day, right next to breakfast.” Bland paused, glancing behind Brendon. “Can I come in?”

“Whatever,” Brendon snapped, moving away from the door and giving Bland enough room to come inside. Bland did, and sat down on the bed like he owned the place.

“So, I know you don’t like me,” Bland said. “I really know that, and I’m not sure why you don’t, but it’s your decision and your life and I can’t change any of that shit. If I could change anyone like that, Trump would be in an asylum, and Spencer would wear a dress more often.”

Brendon snorted out a laugh, which he quickly tried to stifle, because he didn’t want to admit that Bland had actually made him laugh. He didn’t miss the way Bland smiled like he was pleased with himself for accomplishing that. “Pete’s a good guy, and he only ever means well,” Bland continued. “He doesn’t ever say things like that to hurt people. He’s already messed up about Patrick’s cancer coming back. He’s stressed and scared and last time this happened, we…” Bland grimaced. “We almost lost them both. So I’m going to need to ask a favor of you.”

Brendon looked to Bland with a furrowed brow, waiting.

“Take care of them,” Bland requested with a sad smile. “Both of them. Don’t let Pete fall and don’t let Patrick give up. They’re gonna try, at one point. Both of them will. Just be there and remind them of what they’re fighting for. Why they’re fighting to live.”

“What’s wrong with Pete?” Brendon asked.

Bland shook his head. “It’s not my place to tell.”

Brendon scowled.

“Don’t be an ass about it,” Bland said firmly. “There’s shit you don’t want to tell them, so there’s shit that they don’t have to tell you. That’s only fair.”

Brendon paused. Bland was right. It was only fair.

There was a pause between them.

“… I’m glad you’re here for them.”

Brendon nodded. “Glad they picked me up.”

Bland smiled again, and it was less broken. 

“Oh.” Brendon frowned.”I, uh. I guess that was you.”

The other man nodded. “Gotta admit, I was scared shitless.” He chuckled a little, but it was tight. “You looked dead. Really. Your skin was gray and blue and your lashes were frozen. You were just in a t-shirt, for christ’s sake. And when I tried to carry you, I could barely move your limbs. I was terrified. You, you were just a kid. It reminded me of myself too much, and I couldn’t… If you had died…”

 _Ryan_ shook so badly that Brendon could feel it through the bed.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, grumpy that he was giving in. “I’m alive. They’re taking good care of me.”

Ryan nodded with a stiff upper lip. “Can I… Could I ask you for something else?”

Brendon nodded.

“Could I, maybe, like… hug you?”

Brendon’s chest clenched and his stomach twisted. He nodded again.

Ryan smiled nervously before leaning over and pulling Brendon into his chest. It was the first time Brendon had actually be voluntarily and whole touched since he’d ran away. The first time he’d been held. The first friendly, intimate touch, and it was messing with his head. His heart went into overdrive, beating out of the cavity it called him and making Brendon’s head spin. He felt almost dizzy, and his face started to heat up. 

He could smell Ryan, and it was fucking creepy him, he knew it, but god, he could smell Ryan. He smelled like coffee and old books and shampoo and his curly hair tickled the side of Brendon’s face. He could feel Ryan’s chest against his and panicked inwardly, just a little, because Brendon knew his nipples got hard when he started to freak out, and he was definitely freaking out, so Brendon knew his nipples had to be hard, oh god. Ryan’s skinny arms were around his body and there was no way Brendon was going to be able to pull away, not when Ryan’s body was so warm against his. Brendon didn’t mind.

Unfortunately, Ryan was the first to pull away.

“I gotta get back out there,” he told Brendon with a smile. “But I’ll see you again soon, okay?You should come to work wth Pete sometime. I could show you the ropes. We could have some fun. Get to know each other.”

Brendon swallowed hard and shifted, hoping his pants were lose enough to hide his growing shame. “I’d like that.”

Ryan smiled wider. “Goodnight, Brendon.”

He left the room.

Brendon’s hands were shaking even worse than before.

. . .

“I’m back on chemo,” Patrick said. “Which means my medical marijuana license is back in effect.” He smirked over at Brendon and Pete from the front passenger seat. “You guys should be at least a little excited for that, right?”

Pete shrugged and Brendon frowned.

“I don’t smoke,” he stated, squaring his shoulders, ready to defend himself.

“You should,” Patrick deadpanned. “It’ll make it easier for us to get that stick out of your ass. Unless you like it there?”

Pete choked on his own tongue. “Holy shit, Patrick, no!” he squeaked, looking to Brendon in the rearview mirror with a panicked expression. “He didn’t mean it, Brendon! It’s totally okay! He, he’s just teasing! You don’t have to smoke. It’s totally okay if you don’t smoke. None of us care. It’s okay.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and dropped back into his seat with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s being a high and might jerk.”

“Brendon’s not being anything,” Pete said with a nervous laugh. Brendon was wondering if he was fretting over whose side he should assign himself to. So far, it sounded like Pete was defending Brendon. That was kinda nice. “Brendon doesn’t have to smoke if he doesn’t want to. He’s a big kid. He can make these decisions for himself.”

Patrick let out this heavy, petulant sigh that reminded Brendon of when his older brother didn’t get permission to go out to a dance at another high school with his non-Mormon girlfriend. Patrick sounded like a moody teenager and it made Brendon giggle a little.

“Weed is good for you,” Patrick huffed. “Brendon needs to relax! He deserves a good break! Weed gives you that break, no matter what you’re doing. And he totally could use a really good break, Pete. I’ve got the weed. I’ve got the legality. We’ve got our nice, quiet home with a door that can lock. I don’t know why he won’t smoke weed. All the kids his age are doing it. Hell, they’re doing worse! And this is good for him. It can be good for him. He doesn’t have to listen to his parents anymore.”

Pete sent Brendon an apologetic expression in the mirror. “I don’t think—”

“I’ll try it,” Brendon interrupted. Patrick was right. He didn’t have to listen to his parents anymore. “It’s not like it’ll kill me, right? And it isn’t addictive. It doesn’t, like… It’s not cocaine, is it?”

“Not at all,” Pete told him. “But you don’t have to. Patrick was just being—”

“I’d like to try it,” Brendon said firmly.

Patrick threw a fist in the air in triumph and Pete looked a little excited.

“Okay,” Pete murmured to himself with a smile. “Okay.”

. . .

Patrick invited Ryan over.

“He’s good conversation when high,” Pete told Brendon as opened a bag of potato chips and emptied it into a bowl. Patrick had insisted they had chips. Something about needing them for the munchies. “Ryan says the best shit. He’s really smart, you know? Philosophically smart. He can make any boring subject fucking fascinating, especially when he’s high as a kite. You’ll like it.”

“I didn’t even use his name until he talked to me after you guys called me gay,” Brendon grumbled. “I called him Bland.”

Pete frowned. “Bland? Why that?”

Brendon didn’t answer verbally. He just shrugged. He didn’t want to give too much away.

“Well, you’ll soon see that he’s the opposite of bland,” Pete told him.”In fact, you’re gonna get to see him in non-work clothes. That’s always a colorful experience. He’s got a penchant for retro, hippie stuff sometimes. Other times, he’s a sexy hipster, all in leather.” Pete poured out a second bag of potato chips, then opened a tub of onion dip. “He’s just a good lookin’ dude, Brendon. Not bland at all. Can you grab me that bottle of Cheez’ Whiz from the fridge?”

Brendon scrunched his nose and did so. He hated that stuff.

. . .

“Acceptance is fucking mediocre and a fabrication of society,” Ryan told Brendon pointedly, jabbing the joint they were passing in Brendon’s direction. Brendon had avoided Ryan pretty expertly since Ryan had arrived, simply because he didn’t like the way Ryan made Brendon’s heart flutter and falter. It was hard to deny these urges when it was starting to look like that Ryan would be over a lot more often than Brendon preferred. Ryan was a favorite of Patrick and Pete’s for some reason. Brendon distantly remembered that Ryan hadn’t raised his hand when Brendon had asked who was straight at dinner.

“Acceptance is bullshit, just like prejudice,” Ryan continued, bringing the joint back to take a long drag, then let the smoke drift from his lips, like poison from a vent. “People say that our true nature is to accept everyone, that being against gays and blacks and all that shit isn against human nature, but they’re just as fucking stupid as the people who say we should be against those groups.”

“Yeah?” Pete asked as he stuffed his face. “Why’s that, Ry-baby?”

Ryan didn’t break away from Brendon, eyes golden eyes piercing Brendon’s psyche. Brendon couldn’t look away if he wanted to. “Do you see animals accepting outsiders?” he asked. Brendon slowly shook his head no. Brendon’s fingertips were tingling and his head was buzzing pleasantly with the cannabis. 

“You don’t see animals accepting outsiders, right,” Ryan praised, and Brendon felt really good and smiled. Ryan smiled back and kept going. “Animals don’t even accept their own if thins go wrong. Wolves will turn out faulty members of the pack, or put them in the front so they’ll be the first to die. Starving mother bears will eat their own cubs. Lions will kill male babies to protect their title as leader of the pack. Nature is made to survive, you know? Nature doesn’t accept everyone to make them happy. Acceptance isn’t natural. Prejudice isn’t natural. Nature doesn’t give a shit if you’re gay or straight or black or white or asian or stupid or smart or fucking anything! Nature doesn’t care about any of that!”

“Then what does nature care about?” Pete prodded, smiling lazily, like this was good television. “What’s the natural order of everything?”

“Apathy,” Ryan said, sitting back and taking another drag. He moaned softly and Brendon’s heart fluttered again, as it was wont to do. “Apathy to the point of ruthless sadism. It’s natural to not give a shit about your neighbor or your coworker or anyone. It’s natural to throw them to the wind and sacrifice them for your own safety. If you’re being chases by a monster, trip the person you’re running with. If you’re cold, skin the other person and use their pelt to keep yourself warm. Live if their carcass, if you have to. If you’re starving, don’t be afraid to eat the person next to you.”   
“You’re saying cannibalism is natural?” Pete asked.

“Bears eating their cubs? Cannibalism is beyond natural. It’s understood. The other bears won’t turn on the first bear for eating her cubs. They won’t even care. They'd do the same to stay alive.”

“You’re scary,” Brendon breathed reverently.

“So are you gonna eat me now?” Patrick asked with dark eyes.

Ryan chuckled, and the sound made Brendon’s pants feel tighter. “You wish,” Ryan said, long lashes gracing his cheeks. “Patrick, I’m simply trying to shed some light on the faults of humanity— but, in no way, am I condoning the reality that I am attempting to help you comprehend. I love my fellow man. I’m not really inclined to rally for any minority or majority or any movement, but I don’t want to eat my children. I don’t want to sacrifice members of my pack and I don’t want to kill anyone that I fear could take my title. I’m just your average mental anarchist. I talk the talk, but no way will I even put on shoes to even try to walk that walk.”

“Would you hurt me?” Brendon asked.

Ryan didn’t answer, looking alarmed. Patrick launched onto the question.

“Brendon’s right,” he said, moving forward on his knees across the sofa to get to Ryan, who was sitting on the floor, leaning against the coffee table. “Would you hurt him? He isn’t part of your pack yet. Would you sacrifice him? You don’t need him. He’s not part of the family you’d try to protect.”

“Who says he isn’t family?” Ryan asked softly, expression guarded.

Brendon’s breath caught in his throat.

Pete giggled and scooped up two fingers of straight onion dip, then licked it from his digits. Patrick was watching the action with intent and Ryan still didn’t look away from Brendon. His gaze was intense and soul-baring, boring deep through Brendon’s pupils into the cavity that held who he was, intrinsically. Brendon felt like Ryan could see every little secret Brendon was hiding just by string into his eyes. It made it hard to breathe and even harder to think. It was like Ryan was stealing the air out of Brendon’s lungs with the longer he looked.

“Brendon?” Ryan called out in almost a whisper. “You okay?”

Brendon whimpered and reached out for the joint dangling from Ryan’s fingers. Ryan handed it over it over and Brendon snatched it from Ryan, bringing it to his mouth and and sucking in too much smoke. He ended up choking, wheezing and bending over to cough out the smoke that was strangling his lungs. 

“Fuck, B,” said a voice while a hand settled on Brendon’s lower back and rubbed. Brendon appreciated the touch and the foreign nickname. “Just breathe through it, okay? Don’t fight it. That’ll make it worse.”

Brendon got control over his breath and lifted his head.

He almost choked again when his lips were an inch from Ryan’s.

They both stayed that way, suspended in time by the breach of their personal space. Brendon could count every single wrinkle under Ryan’s eyes, could count his lashes, could pick out the greens and browns in the gold of Ryan’s irises. He could feel Ryan’s breath on his lips and could smell the aftershave on Ryan’s skin. Ryan finally pulled back with a tight chuckle, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “Maybe you should get to know me better before making a move,” Ryan teased, relaxed and loose from the drug curling in his veins. Brendon shuddered and knew that he wanted nothing more than to know Ryan to a sinful extent. 

Brendon got up and excused himself to the bathroom, because he felt like he was going to throw up.


	3. Put it On Repeat and Pretend You Can’t Forget Me (Stay Hungry for Me in these Red Jeans)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon bleeds the day away and tries to pretend Patrick's not hurting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man oh man oh man do i love me some jared padalecki
> 
> this has nothing to do with the fic, i just really love jared padalecki
> 
> BUT 
> 
> something to do with the fic
> 
> i've added a few new tags so you might wanna check those out just in case

Brendon was furiously staring across the street, to the coffee shop Pete had asked him to go to and get coffee for the people upstairs with Pete’s money, because there was an all-nighter planned concerning Ryan’s newest musical epiphany, and Brendon was invited, but that also meant he had to buy everyone coffee, for as long as coffee was available, whenever it was needed. Brendon had agreed to the terms because he’d wanted to watch Ryan work, and he also wanted to be part of the music-making process. But now, in the freezing cold, having to cross Chicago work day traffic, he regretted agreeing. There wasn’t a crosswalk for another block, and Brendon didn’t want to brave walking the ice, knowing that he was prone to slips and falls on the most favorable of surfaces. 

Brendon heaved a long, unhappy sigh, looked both ways, then started to cross.

A horn blared.

Brendon scowled and stepped out into the street with renewed vengeance, wanting to show this fucking city who was boss. He’d spent too long in the gutter, hand outstretched, begging for something, anything. Now Brendon was with Pete and Patrick Wentz, producers and creators, entrepreneurs and millionaires, he was sure. Brendon was at the top. This city should be groveling to be graced with Brendon’s presence.

A bumper nudged his knees just before coming to a complete stop and Brendon smacked his hand on the hood before finishing his cross and shuffling up the icy curb to the sidewalk. He let out a breath of relief and watched the steam from his mouth rise into the air. It reminded him of watching smoke fall from Ryan’s lips as they shared that joint, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Brendon steeled his jaw and faced the coffee shop with renewed stubbornness, refusing to continue thinking about Ryan, even though Ryan was the only reason he wanted to stick around the office for the night, and thusly, the only reason Brendon had braved the streets and was standing in front of this fucking store.

God, it looked warm inside.

Brendon hunched his shoulders up to keep the frigid air from his neck and moved inside. It wasn’t very crowded, because it was nowhere near lunch, nor dinner, nor any particular meal. There were a couple teens hanging around, some reading books, some on their laptops, others reading books on their laptops, and one girl was playing a video game on an old Gameboy by the pickup window. He saw an old man sketching something out the window, too. Brendon went to the counter to order his drinks. He just got coffee for everyone, except a special order that was written on a piece of paper from Ryan. There was a little smile drawn in the bottom right corner of the slip and Brendon refused to look at it. Once his order was placed, Brendon went to wait by the pickup.

“That’s a lotta coffee,” the girl with the gameboy commented. She had brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes and Brendon smiled a bit at the sound of her laugh. “You throwin’ some weird hipster party? Though I don’t think you’ve got enough beard for that.”

“No?” Brendon asked, stroking his jaw idly. “Too bad. No beard, but not for lack of trying.”

The girl giggled and turned around completely in her chair. “What’s your name?”

“Why do you ask?” Brendon queried, not at all sure if it was a good idea to give his name to just anyone. 

She shrugged. Then reached across her table to grab a napkin, scribbling something onto it with the barista sharpie she snatched from the employee that was calling out drinks. The girl tucked the napkin in Brendon’s pocket. “Name’s Smiles,” she said with a wink. “Call me up sometime. I can tell you’re from out of town, so why not give me a chance to show you the city?”

She was on her feet and out the door, long gone before Brendon could respond. He pulled the napkin from his pocket and saw a string of numbers. Brendon stared at the seat she’d vacated and wondered if it was a prank. His name was called and a tray of steaming coffees was put on the bar in front of him. Brendon gathered them up with stars behind his eyelids and tried to figure out why a parent would name their child something like “smiles.”

. . .

“Oh my god, the ichor of the divine,” Pete moaned, grabbing a cup. Brendon handed off the rest to a girl he didn’t recognize, then Patrick, Mikey, Spencer, and Jon. Spencer had an arm around the woman’s waist and they seemed overtly friendly, so maybe that was Linda? Brendon wasn’t sure. He handed Ryan his special coffee and went to sit next to Pete. They were all in a big conference room that had windows on all three sides, save the wall with the entrance. Huge storm clouds billowed in the distant, coming towards the city like a wall, and Brendon hoped Smiles wasn’t walking home in that.

“Brendon?” Pete broke Brendon from his musings with a gentle nudge against Brendon’s leg with his foot. “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Brendon replied. Then, when he remembered all the gay jabs he’d suffered, “I got a girl’s number.” He smirked a bit when all eyes turned to him, most of them impressed. Ryan looked oddly… not okay. Brendon had no explanation for that. Hell, everyone had this sort of regretful look in their eyes a little more than actually impressed. Spencer kept glancing back to Ryan, and Mikey even pressed his and Ryan’s shoulders together.

“What?” Brendon asked standoffishly. 

“Could’a sworn you were actually gay,” Patrick replied with a shrug. “Like, actually. And just being shy or in denial or something.”

Brendon scowled.”Well, I’m not. So shut up about it. I got a girl’s number.” He pulled out the napkin and waved it in the air to prove it. “Her name is Smiles and she has a Gameboy and she has really pretty eyes.”

“You were gone for, like, thirty minutes,” Jon estimated. “Is that what took you so long?”

“I think it’s awesome,” the woman said.

“Linda thinks it’s awesome,”Spencer echoed protectively.

“Linda thinks everything’s awesome,” Jon snorted. “Especially when it’s boys getting with girls. Or vice versa. Or boys getting with boys. Or girls getting with girls. Or other stuff. Yeah, see? Linda thinks everything’s awesome.”

“That’s cause Linda’s awesome,” Spencer defended.

“Linda is pretty awesome,” Pete agreed with a sagely nod.

“So she’s your wife?” Brendon asked, making mental family trees in his mind to help keep track of who was with who and over what. It was going to make the names easier to remember, and help him know what to say around who.

Spencer grinned and kissed the tip of Linda’s ear. “My wife of five beautiful and perfect years.”

Brendon found himself smiling wistfully at the pair and the ideas it brought to his head. His eyes strayed to Ryan, and the ideas didn’t falter. That wasn’t a good sign. Brendon abruptly shook himself and sat back. “So,” he murmured. “How do we do this?”

“We sit in a pow-wow circle and let Ryan think aloud,” Pete hummed. “Bounce off of him, talk him through whatever he’s feeling, thinking, or breathing, and then he writes it down and we’ve got something beautiful.” Pete looked to Ryan with the pride of a father seeing their child get the highest award for the most soccer goals in the world. Brendon wondered what their relationship was, and found himself jealous. He wanted someone to look at him like that, like he’d done the greatest thing in the world in the best way and deserved the most praise in the whole god damn world.

“Everyone, on the floor!” Pete demanded, plopping onto the carpeted ground and offering Patrick a hand to help him sit. Ryan sat opposite of Pete with Mikey sitting close against his side, their shoulders, sides, hips pressed together. Brendon remembered how warm Ryan was and found himself even more jealous. Spencer sat at Ryan’s other side with Linda on the next, and Jon sat down to complete the circle. Brendon squished in beside Pete and leaned against Pete just so he could feel like he was maybe going to make Ryan as jealous as Brendon already felt. 

Pete grinned and wiggled on his butt. “Ready, Ry?”

Ryan grimaced, steadfastly looking anywhere but Pete, or maybe Brendon? He didn’t know.

Ryan pulled out his phone.

“What’s this gonna be like?” Brendon asked Pete in a whisper.

“I, uh, found this article,” Ryan said. “It’s from, uh, Tempe. Tempe, Arizona. A college town for ASU? Just outside of Phoenix.” He cleared his throat and began to read. “There, uh… A woman. She died. Well, she’d been dead, and the police got called to her apartment cause of the smell. She, she died in her ice cream bowl.” 

With his head on Ryan’s shoulder, Mikey’s brow furrowed quizzically, and he took a sip of coffee.

“She died of a heart attack, actually,” Ryan continued. “And her heart attack landed her unconscious, face first in her bowl office cream. She’d been lying on her stomach, watching Law and Order.” Ryan smiled, though the longer it remained, the more Brendon realized that it was a grimace. “She drowned in her ice cream, and I…” He shrugged. “I thought to myself that that wouldn’t be the worst way to go.” Mikey frowned and turned his face to press his nose into Ryan’s neck. “I remember thinking,” Ryan murmured. “That… I wouldn’t mind that.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.

“… This isn’t going to be a happy song, is it?” Brendon asked, because no one else was asking, even though he knew they were all thinking that exact same question.

“She left behind kids,” Ryan almost whispered. Brendon had to strain just to hear him. “Three of them. Three kids that didn’t even notice she was gone.” Ryan shook his head. “The kids were thirteen, fifteen, and twenty-two. And, like… How?” He looked around the circle with a lost expression. “How could they not know? She’d been dead for three days. Two of those kids legally lived with her, only saw their dad once a month, visitation wasn’t for another two weeks. The kids just didn’t care to come home.”

Ryan hung his head in his hands. “I just, I’ve lived my life thinking that the children are always the victims, no matter the crime, when it came to parents. Abuse, neglect, ignorance… But now? Those kids, they… They’re the criminals in the sense of abuse. They neglected her. A mother shouldn't be dead for three days before anyone found her. No kid should leave their parents like that.”

“But Ryan, you—“ Pete cut himself off.

Ryan met Pete’s eyes. “I know.” His expression was drawn and ragged and Brendon’s throat closed up at the sight of the emptiness in Ryan’s eyes. “I know.”

. . .

Brendon was too much of a coward to actually call Smiles and hear her voice, so he stuck with texting with the phone Pete had bought him so they’d be able to communicate in emergencies and in more lax settings. Also so Brendon could build a social life, something Patrick really supported. Patrick had said Brendon needed to make connections and build his own reason to stay, or else he’d resent the two men for making him remain. Brendon had to admit that Patrick was right; Brendon tended to resent people rather easily.

_‘this is the boy with all the coffee. smiles?’_

_‘hi coffee crazy!’_

_‘it’s actually sarah ;)’_

_‘glad you texted ~’_

_‘wanna meet up?’_

Brendon stared at the string of messages from the girl, a bit blindsided. This was all happening very suddenly. He barely knew this girl, definitely didn’t know if he could trust her. While he hadn’t met her on the bad side of town, all of Chicago was really a bad side of town. Even the rich were shifty, and Brendon knew that he should at least google her full name (once he found it out) before going out with her.

_’sure’_

Brendon wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to turn down an offer from a pretty girl. It wasn’t like they were going to have sex or anything, right? Brendon wasn’t about to get laid.

Brendon’s grip on his phone started to shake in anticipation. 

What if he was about to get laid?

. . .

Brendon was pretty sure he wasn’t about to get laid. 

He met Sarah Smiles in the park, where she was feeding a stray cat something that looked weird and very unappetizing, but he remembered eating even more sickening things to stay alive. He’d eaten food off the sole of a shoe, once, hands shaking and barely able to move. Thinking back, Brendon wasn’t sure which had been harder— fighting hypothermia, or fighting starvation. Brendon looked around the park and wondered if it would have been easier to survive here.

Sarah Smiles looked up and saw Brendon. She grinned and waved, startling the cat as she stood and jogged over to meet Brendon. “Where’s the coffee?” she asked with a wide grin.

Brendon snorted. “Sorry, guess I drank it all on my way here.”

“You’ve got quiet the appetite, then,” she giggled. “Brendon’s big belly or something, right? I’m sorry, I’m trying to come up with a nickname for you. Brendon sounds so impersonal, you know? Like you’re just a name on a list and I’m reading it aloud for class. But you’re not just some name. You’re the coffee kid with the cool hair.”

Brendon blushed faintly, and tried to play it cool. “I don’t do anything to my hair.” A fucking lie. Brendon had products for days, stuff he’d stolen from Pete with Patrick’s permission. There was an obvious gleam to his hair, so Brendon ducked his head a little and made show of running his fingers through it, basically showcasing that he actually did take care of his hair and style it, so Sarah Smiles wouldn’t think he was actually trying to live the lie.

Sarah Smiles laughed and shook her head. “And to think I almost trusted you,” she teased. “You coffee drinking liar. Girls need to keep themselves locked away from heartbreakers like you.”

“Heartbreaker?” Brendon’s brow shot sky high. “I, I’m not a heartbreaker.”

“You sure?” Sarah Smiles smirked a bit. “You have the cheekbones of someone who’s broken many a heart and come out on top.”

“I’m not that type of guy,” Brendon said with a frown, though he wasn’t sure if he was any type of guy at all. He didn’t really know if he fit a certain genotype, or whatever, and he really didn’t want to. He wanted to be his own person, like Pete or Ryan or Frank. Someone memorable and different and worth seeking out. Brendon wanted to be _Brendon._

“Wanna go see a movie or something?” Sarah Smiles suggested.

Pete had given Brendon a hundred dollar bill to take this girl out on a date, and he fully intended to do so. “Hell yeah,” Brendon said with feigned confidence. “My treat? To prove that I can do more than buy coffee.”

Sarah Smiles laughed and let Brendon lead the way.

. . .

“Hey, Brendon,” Sarah said outside the Applebees after Star Wars. “Can I see you again?”

. . .

Brendon came home, red as a tomato with a serene smile painted across his lips.

But he came home to Pete, who was crying. 

“Patrick collapsed,” Pete choked out past his tears and frantic searching for his keys. “I-I couldn’t ride in the ambulance, cause, y-you.” Brendon felt more than a kick of guilt to his gut. “Y-you’re staying over at Ryan’s tonight. I’m sorry.”

Brendon wanted to say, “don’t be,” to alleviate Pete’s concerns, but the other man was already out the door and gone. Brendon was left, standing in the living room. He looked around the apartment and saw where a glass was lying on the floor, broken. He automatically picked up dustpan and broom and cleaned up the shards, then ended up tidying the entire home. It was around one in the morning that there was a knock on the door.

Brendon answered with his hair pushed back by a hairband and a dumb, tired look on his face. He wished the hairband wasn’t pink when he saw it was Ryan.

“Hey,” Ryan greeted solemnly. “I’m here to take you to my place. Pete kinda neglected to tell you how to get there, huh? Bet he didn’t even give you my number.” Ryan shook his head and stepped into the apartment. “Pack a bag, B. It might be a couple days.”

Brendon was halfway through stuffing a duffle bag when he realized he liked Ryan’s new nickname for him way too much.

“B,” he whispered to himself. A smile grew on his lips, and he hated it.

. . .

“Mikey!” Ryan called out as he led Brendon into the apartment. It was smaller than Pete’s, but definitely still nice. The ceiling was high above Brendon’s head, and everything was clean and decorated with music posters and instruments and a few skateboard decks nearly the kitchen.

The kitchen was smaller and much cleaner than Pete and Patrick’s, and Brendon assumed it was because the kitchen was used less. Brendon couldn’t see Mikey and Ryan cooking very often. They just seemed like the guy who would be really, really bad at it. 

There were three different game consoles in front of the flat screen TV, but they had all gathered dust, like someone had lost interest or reason to play. The video game cases were covered in dust too, and none of the games looked like they'd been moved. The TV had a thin sheen of dust as well. Brendon looked to the couch and it oddly looked like no one had sat in that as well. 

Brendon was hit with the sense that something was missing. 

He looked to the walls and saw photos, Ryan and Mikey with Pete and Patrick and Frank and Bob, a man with black, greasy hair, a man with bright red hair, and a man with bleached blond, short hair. There were photos of a man with an afro too, dressed in military blues in one picture, then dressed casually in the rest.

“Brendon,” Mikey greeted in monotone as he exited the bathroom, wrapped up in only a towel with his skin glistening. Brendon blushed and turned away quickly. He heard Mikey snort, then the closing of a door. Brendon still refused to look in case he saw something he didn’t want to. 

“You hungry?” Ryan asked softly from the unused kitchen.

Brendon shrugged. He watched Ryan for a moment, wondering if he should ask about Patrick, or if Ryan knew anything about Patrick at all. Brendon was scared that something really bad had happened. He knew Patrick hadn’t started chemo yet— that was next week. Brendon wasn’t sure what had caused the collapse. He knew Patrick’s cancer was in his throat or vocal chord, he wasn’t sure why Patrick would have the need to collapse at all. He wished he had been there to help keep Pete calm. Being with Sarah seemed of minuscule importance in the face of what had happened to his newfound family.

“I need to know if you’re hungry or not, B…”

“Why do you call me B?” Brendon asked.

Ryan paused. “I, uh… I’m not sure. Is it important?”

“Not really,” Brendon replied. “Do you want to make me food or do you need to make me food?”

Ryan frowned and just arched a brow to silently relay his question of “what the fuck?”

“Do you want to make me food cause you want to make sure I’m comfortable or fed?” Brendon clarified. “Or do you need to make food so you can give yourself something to do? Something to distract yourself.”

Ryan grimaced. “It’s too late for you to be asking questions like that,” he said softy. “Grilled cheese? Or something else? I think I’ve got some burritos in the freezer that I can heat up for you, if you’d prefer that.”

“You okay, Ryan?” Brendon asked, because it was only polite. 

Ryan sighed and just rummaged through the kitchen to find whatever he was looking for. Brendon watched him pulled out a Pink Lady and start slicing the apple. Brendon went into the kitchen to offer his help.

“Grab the cheese from the bottom drawer of the fridge,” Ryan requested. “It’s pre-sliced, so don’t worry about getting a knife. I’ll get the bread ready, and then you can butter a pan and I’ll start heating up the bread and cheese.” Brendon nodded and did as told, humming softly to himself as he moved around the kitchen. He wanted to keep the rest of the night as light as possible, because Ryan honestly did look a little upset.

“Fuck.”

Mikey looked pissed, staring at his phone as he came out of the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.

“Ray was supposed to call,” Mikey sighed. “Which, again, didn’t work out.” Mikey let out a long, agonized sigh, and dropped onto the couch, long legs splaying out. “Which means it’s been a whole god damn month since I’ve heard from him! Fuck, Ry, is he even alive? Should I keep hoping to get a call from him, or will a guy show up at my door in blues and hand me a fucking flag with his dog tags? What’s if he’s already a cold, dead corpse, and I’m just kidding myself? What do I do then?”

“Get your head out of hell and stop thinking like Edgar Allen Poe,” Ryan replied. “Ray’s alive. He’s a trooper, literally. You can’t doubt him just because he misses a phone call.”

“Where’s Ray?” Brendon asked. Then, “who’s Ray?”

“Ray is Mickey’s fiancé, who’s deployed overseas right now,” Ryan told him softly, with a concerned glanced back to Mikey in the living room. “He’s been gone for a year, but he only has a month left. Mike’s getting nervous. It’s Ray’s first deployment since they got engaged.”

“But not since they started dating?” Brendon asked curiously. He’d watched TV blame soldiers for families falling apart for years. He wondered if it was true. “Doesn’t that suck?”

Ryan shrugged.”He’s always handled it well. Until he gets horny.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “He does stupid things when he gets horny. But Ray said it was okay, as long as nothing actually happened.”

Brendon frowned. He didn’t understand what Ryan meant. “What?”

Ryan shook his head.”Maybe you’ll see. Maybe you won’t. It doesn’t matter. Mikey loves Ray, and I know he doesn’t begrudge him for the job Ray chose. It can just be harder for him to keep his chin up when Ray’s gone.”

Brendon nodded. “We should make him some grilled cheese.”

Ryan snorted. “Are you hungry now? I’m making you food whether you are or not, so it’s up to you if you want to eat it. I’ll make Mikey a sandwich of his own, but you’ll need to grab me some more cheese. And bread. And can you also get the peanut butter? Or the Nutella. So we can get something good on these apples.”

Brendon dove into the pantry to find what he’d been asked to find.

“I’m gonna roll a joint!” Mikey called out.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asked.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Mikey huffed. “Unless you’ve got alcohol or something else that can help me forget this horrible fucking failure of a night. Patrick’s in the hospital and Ray’s some sort of Schrödinger’s paradox until I find out if he’s actually alive. What better alternative do I have, other than eating grilled cheese and getting high?”

“You have a lot of other options,”Ryan said.

“Like…” Mikey trailed off, obviously waiting for those options.

“Jam with me. Learn something new. Read a book. Watch a movie. Research strain theory, help Gee with the comic, help me in the kitchen. There are a lot of things that you can do.”

“Nah,” Mikey drawled. “I’d rather get high.”

Ryan paused, then nodded. “Go for it. I’m going to finish dinner.”

Brendon heard Mikey get up and watched Ryan’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asked because he wanted to know. He didn’t really know Ryan at all, regardless of what he’d learned while watching Ryan work. Brendon knew a lot about how Ryan could get sad over little things, like empty beer bottles or a hair-clip with a sequined butterfly on the end. He knew Ryan liked Cheez Wiz and discussing futility and soul continuation theory, and he knew Ryan liked patterns and pastel colors and fairy lights. But he didn’t know a god damn thing about what made Ryan who he was right now. Brendon wasn’t sure if he wanted to search Ryan’s past and find out, because that would be too telling. He didn’t want to acknowledge anything about Ryan that interested him. He didn’t even want to acknowledge that Ryan interested him at all.

Mikey came back with two sticks rolled in his hand, and sidled up alongside Ryan, kissing his cheek and then ripping his hair from his face. “I’m ready when you are, sugar tits,” he said with a smirk, winking at Brendon before disappearing from sight again. Brendon grinned a bit and helped Ryan finish making the dinner by setting up plates for all three of them with even amounts of apple slices and portions of peanut butter and Nutella. He then went to the fridge and poured out three glasses of milk why Ryan divide out the grilled cheese. Brendon noted how Ryan looked impressed by the plates with a slight air of pride. That’s right, Ryan Ross, Brendon the homeless kid could make one fine looking plate.

“God, I love you both,” Mikey moaned as he was handed his plate. He was already a third of the way through the first joint, and Ryan reached out to pluck the stick from Mikey’s lips to bring it to his own, taking a hit and smiling as the smoke ghosted from his lips. Brendon stared, entranced. Ryan offered the joint, but Brendon shrugged, then shook his head. He wanted a clear head in case Pete called. He knew Ryan would probably do the same if Ryan wasn’t already so tense. Brendon could see how tight Ryan’s shoulders were through his shirt. He kinda wished he could give Ryan a massage a something. He was really good at that since he mom made him massage her back once a week. Brendon knew he could really help Ryan, given the chance.   
But jesus, Brendon, it was a guy, and not his mother. That would be too inappropriate. 

“This is the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.”Mikey sighed happily and bit into the sandwich again, melting into the couch. “God, I haven’t sat on this couch and eaten food this good since…” He trailed off, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he went somewhere else.

“Since Ray left,” Ryan finished for him.

“What?” Brendon turned to look at Ryan. He was sitting in the middle of the couch, sandwiched between the two men. He wasn’t very comfortable because Mikey and Ryan were still pretty unfamiliar to him. “How can you not have sat here in that long? That’s over a year! This is your home, I thought.”

“We’re usually at work or he’s on the road,” Ryan told Brendon. 

“The road?” Brendon frowned. “Where does he go?”

“He tours,” Ryan said.

Brendon turned to Mikey, gaping. “You have a band?”

“No, I don’t,” Mikey chuckled. “Wish I did, but I like my job. I play the bass, that’s it. I’m not good at creating and all that shit. But I tour with Frank’s band so I can be around Gee and shit. Gee always tours with Frank. He can’t be away from that fiend for too long, or he starts to lose his mind. Plus, some of his best works comes from the post-orgasmic haze that Frank gives him.”

Brendon blushed and unconsciously leaned more towards Ryan.

Mikey arched a brow when Brendon moved away. “Dude, you’re supposedly not a virgin, and yet you’re bothered by all of this? Isn’t that a little weird?”

“I-I’m not—“ Brendon cut himself off. “How did you know that? Who told you?”

“Pete tells us everything,” Ryan said. “Me and Mikey are, like, his therapists. He tells us all kinds of shit. The only person who knows more than we do is Patrick, which is totally a given. Patrick should know him better than anyone else, cause marriage.”

“Why are you two so special?” Brendon asked. He could feel the heat radiating off of Ryan’s side and wanted something to help him ignore it. 

“Well, I was there when something really bad happened,” Mikey said. “Ryan was… Ryan’s like you, actually.” He finished his grilled cheese. “Pete and Patrick are one stray from a pattern. Though I guess, it would actually be Ryan to have started the new round.”

“You sound so cryptic,” Ryan chimed in.

“I’m just not sure what you want him to know.” Mikey shrugged and dipped an apple slice in Nutella.

“You can tell him about yourself,” Ryan snorted. “And maybe I’ll share.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss Pete’s private life,” Mikey snorted.

“You had sex with Pete,” Brendon said a bit bluntly, to show that he knew. He wasn’t dumb. He’d put two and two together at that party. “I’m guessing Patrick wasn’t that mad? Because they’re still together. But yeah, you helped Pete cheat on Patrick.”

Mikey grimaced. “I mean… Yeah. You’re right.”

“They were drunk, Pete was crying, and Patrick was dying,” Ryan told Brendon softly. “It was a lot of horrible things happening at the same time, and coming together to create one, small, good moment. Because regardless of what Patrick may tell you, Pete needed that comfort. It was a good thing Mikey was there, or Pete would have gone to a stranger instead.”

“Is that how you justify what I did?” Mikey shook his head, stirring circles into the peanut butter with his last apple slice. “Because I’m pretty sure I just fucked a married man and pretended it was okay because he was begging me for something.”

“Mikey,” Ryan murmured. “You know it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?” Brendon asked, kinda wanting the juicy details. “How do you know what happened?”

“I was there,” Ryan sighed. 

Brendon blanched. “You watched them have sex?!”

“What?” Ryan went bright red. “No! N-no, no, I didn’t… what the fuck, B? I don’t do that. That’s not normal. I mean, maybe it is for Mikey or Gerard or whatever, but not me. Okay? No, see, I was there when they were talking and Pete became hysterical and Mikey was just doing everything he could to help Pete feel better and stop crying. Then Pete just kissed him and Mikey… Mikey didn’t really have any other choice.”

“That sounds like he raped me, Ryan,” Mikey chortled.

Ryan winced. “Okay, no, Mikey did have a choice. He just… He felt almost compelled? I don’t know, Brendon, but I know Mikey did it for Pete, and not because he wanted to get laid or anything. He wasn’t wth Ray back then, they were still dancing around each other in some sort of sexual tension stalemate. But it happened, and it turned out okay. For the better, even. Patrick wanted Pete to feel okay. Mikey helped him get there, and that’s it. Pete was better off, in the long run, and Patrick understood. That’s all that matters.”

Mikey smiled a bit, just playing with the peanut butter on the tip of his finger. “My buzz is gone. I’m going onto the second joint, yeah? I don’t wanna be sad right now. Shit’s already so fucking fucked. I’d rather pretend it’s all good and get high.”

“Patrick’s gonna make it,” Brendon said with confidence. “He made it once, he can do it again. That’s how this works. Strong people don’t give up until they win, and Patrick’s gonna win.”

“I need to be high to believe that,” Mikey said. He lit the second joint and stopped talking.

. . .

Brendon ended up going to lie in Ryan’s bed with Brendon on the couch, and god, it was an experience. Everywhere smelled like Ryan, like musk and cologne and spice and awesome. Brendon hated it. He hated that it made his heart do that stupid thing, and he wished he could smother himself in pillow to no longer smell Ryan and only Ryan, but he’d already tried that, and the pillow he’d chosen to smother himself only smelled more like Ryan than the rest of the sheets. He knew this was already horribly creepy, and he couldn’t see it getting much better.

The worst part was the more he tried to stop thinking about Ryan, the more he thought about him, like trying to ignore a bug bite or trying to forget a catchy song or a bad memory.

Brendon lied in Ryan’s bed, unable to push the man from his mind. So he pulled out his cellphone and started to text Sarah Smiles.

_’smiles?’_

_‘brndn! sup? how u doin?’_

Brendon grinned to himself at Sarah Smile’s exuberant response. She made him feel like she actually wanted to talk to him. He loved to feel wanted. He wanted nothing more than to be wanted by Rya—

Sarah.

He wanted to be wanted by Sarah.

_‘dads sick so im w/ a friend’_

_‘im sorry brndn :( :( :( u gonna b ok???’_

_‘im good smiles thx :)’_

Brendon talked with her for what felt like hours, even though it was barely half an hour. He liked talking with Sarah Smiles. It was easy and made him feel better, made him forget he was so anxious. The anxiety and the smell of Ryan niggled at the back of his mind, but it was overshadowed by Sarah Smiles’ smiling emojis.

Brendon eventually fell asleep at six in the morning, after Sarah had reportedly gone to work. His hand was curled around the phone, just in case she texted him again.

. . .

Brendon was awoken by Ryan at one the following afternoon. He was half asleep, so Brendon knew it wasn’t entirely his fault when he snuffled and took in a long, heavy inhale into the pillow his head was atop. _It just smelled so good._

Ryan laughed awkwardly. “It’s what?”

Brendon groaned and rolled onto his back, a bit peeved that he’d said that aloud, but mostly because Ryan had been listening. “Why ‘m I up?”

“Patrick’s back from the hospital,” Ryan told him in a low voice, obviously being considerate of the fact that Brendon had just woken up. He was standing at the side of the bed, bent over to get closer to Brendon so he wouldn’t have to speak so loud to be heard. “They said it was a fluke, just dehydration and exhaustion coming together. Pete’s worried, but Patrick seems okay.”

“Did they come here?”

Ryan shook his head. “We talked over the phone. They’re keeping Patrick an extra night, considering his current condition. They’re not worried, but they’re not taking any chances, either.”

Brendon nodded sleepily and yawned. “What’re we doin’ today?”

Ryan smiled a bit. “What do you mean?”

Brendon struggled to sit up, his body still clinging to the warmth of the bed. “No plans?”

Ryan shook his head. “No plans.”

“… I wanna go ice skating,” Brendon told him. “Or something. Let’s be active, yeah? Just cause you’re old doesn’t mean you can’t still do stuff.”

Ryan snorted. “I’m twenty-one, you asshole.”

Brendon gasped dramatically, being a bit of a jerk, but only playfully. “What? No way! I could’ve sworn you weren’t a day over eighty!”

“Get up,” Ryan grumbled with a twinkle in his eyes. “Stop falling in love with my bed and face the day. Mikey’s on a McDonalds run to grab us breakfast, and he should be back soon. Once he’s here, we can figure out what we wanna do today. Even though our usual daily routine is jack shit.” Ryan took a step back to give Brendon room to get out of bed. “Don’t expect much excitement or eagerness from Mikey initially. He gets moodier more quickly when Ray’s gone. Patience is crucial with him some days.”

“We should go dancing,” Brendon stated as he set his bare feet on the freezing wooden floor and shuddered. “Like, ballroom dancing. Or jazz. Or swing. And then we should go boating through the ice. And go on a scavenger hunt in the park. Or in the mall. Or in an old, historical neighborhood. Did anyone really famous die here?”

Ryan was smiling in exasperation. “That’s a bit much for twenty-four hours. Maybe we should choose one or two of those, and leave the rest for the next day?”

Brendon blinked, surprised. He was used to being shot down and having his ideas immediately rejected. Ryan was trying to compromise? Was that what this was called? Brendon wasn’t used to people actually taking his ideas seriously.”

“I don’t know if any lakes are frozen, but we can look, and then we can explore a little and do your scavenger hunt,” Ryan said. “We’ll have to talk to Mikey to make sure he’s up for it. Neither of us work today, since Pete asked us to take care of you.”

“That was nice of him,” Brendon hummed as he tried to find his socks. He let out a crow of excitement and slipped them on once retrieved. 

“I’ll be in the living room,” Ryan told him.

Mikey came home a few minutes later with, like, twenty pancakes. Brendon didn’t have a chance to count because he’d already eaten three or more by the time he’d thought of counting the numbers in the first place. He drowned himself in syrup and pancakes and didn’t regret a second of it.

“Brendon wants to have some fun today,” Ryan told Mikey with a slight grin. “And it involves going outside.”

“Not happening,” Mikey deadpanned.

Brendon pouted and Ryan chuckled. “It’s good for you, Mikey. That white skin needs some sun before you start becoming translucent.”

“I’m gonna gouge your eyes out with my glasses,” Mikey continued to deadpan.

“He wants to check out some historical streets and stuff too.”

“Seriously. With my glasses. You’ll have to clean up the blood afterwards, too.”

Ryan didn’t seem fazed. “I was thinking we could grab some wings while we’re out, maybe finish that contest you and I had going.”

Mikey ceased his threats and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “… Really?”

Ryan nodded, idly playing with a spork.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Mikey said, back to threats, but for a different reason. “You’re going to be eaten out of this god damn city. I will make you my bitch, and in the end? You’ll get on your knees, bend over, and proclaim me to be the wing king.”

“And then you’ll go against Frank and be slaughtered,” Ryan hummed.

“Fuck you, I’m the best,” Mikey shot back with a smirk.

“We will see.”

. . .

Brendon hadn’t ever been this excited to watch two dudes eat.

It was so horribly dumb, he knew it was, but Brendon was the scorekeeper and Mikey had handed him this notebook that was decorated with stickers of food and decorated with larger letters reading “EATING COMPETITION LOG - FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY - THAT MEANS NOT FRANK OR GABE.” The chosen sauce was hot to mild to allow for less pausing to cool a burning mouth. That was part of the written rules for wing eating contests, as was written on the page meant for the wings eating contest. Brendon could see that the number crowned king, as of now, was actually Gabe, but Ryan was just below him. Brendon could tell from the numbers that Mikey had been steadily climbing the ranks to get the crown.

“The crown’s not even an actual crown,” Mikey told Brendon with a snort. “It’s a keychain with a frog ornament on the end that Pete found on the street one day when he was showing Ryan around the city.”

“Then why all the fuss?” Brendon asked.

“Because it’s the crown!” Mikey exclaimed, hands gesturing wildly. “And if you collect five crowns from different challenges, you get free coffee for a week from all the other participants. It’s fucking amazing, B.” Brendon smiled a bit when he realized that Ryan’s nickname for him was catching on. “I want that free coffee. I fucking need it. I already have crowns in the cupcake, spaghetti, burger, and lemon eating contests. I just need this last crown for the coffee.”

“How many different competitions do you guys even have?” Brendon queried, eyes wide. He couldn’t imagine eating lemons.  Mikey and Ryan both frowned, pursing their lips in thought.

“Fuck if I know,” Mikey finally said.

“We have a lot,” Ryan chuckled. “I’ve got the crown in celery, cheese, milk, chili, ham, and, uh…”

“Finish that list,” Mikey prodded with a knowing grin.

Ryan blushed. “Uhm, hot dogs. I, uh, having the crown in eating hot dogs.”

“Not because he’s the fastest,” Mikey clarified for Brendon. “But because everyone else ends up bursting out laughing from how fucking gay all of it looks. Pete got close, but then Patrick made some joke about his gag reflex to William, and Pete was out. Ryan was the only one able to be completely stoic for all the hot dogs.”

Brendon turned to Ryan with a grin. “Without or without buns?”

Ryan choked on his own spit.

“Let’s fucking do this!” Mikey suddenly roared, slamming a fist on the table and taking a swig of his beer. “You know the rules, Ross. You’re allowed a drink every five wings. Once the competition starts, no stopping, not even for bathroom breaks. If you throw up, you lose. If you can’t eat anymore, you lose. And if take a drink any time other than every five, you’re out. The number of wings eaten will be divided by the allotted time needed to finish the whole basket provided, and an average will be given per minute.”

“So this is all on B,” Ryan said with a wink to Brendon. “I’m trusting you.”

Brendon sat up straight with a prideful expression. “I am the decider of the king.”

“Hardly,” Mikey snorted. “Just don’t play favorites.”

“Time starts in three… two… one.”

Brendon hit start on Ryan’s phone and wondered if he should have a 9-1-1 call at the ready.


	4. My Best Friend’s a Butcher— He has Sixteen Knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon's friendship with Sarah takes a darker turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so! heavy editing of the tags again (you might wanna check on those)
> 
> _there is still no character death_
> 
> i finally figured out a sort of direction for this story, so there will be a lot more of a purpose than before. again, no one dies, no one really gets horribly hurt or anything.

Brendon spent the entire ride to the hospital listening to Mikey complain about how Ryan had cheated, how Brendon had played favorites, how Mikey had deserved to win, “god dammit!” and Brendon had laughed with Ryan as Mikey raved and ranted. Ryan would even meet Brendon’s eye in the rearview mirror, smile full of mirth. Brendon returned it, glancing affectionately to Mikey in the front passenger seat. He’d spent the whole day with these men, and wasn’t surprised to realize that he was really starting to like them. They were just honest and unique and true to themselves in a way Brendon envied. But he also knew he could easily achieve that confidence. Being with Ryan and Mikey made him open up and smile and laugh and joke and say all the stupid shit that wanted to role off his tongue.

“I should’ve fucking won!” Mikey kept exclaiming, jabbing his finger everywhere and waving his hands in the air, even stomping his foot every then and again to emphasize a point. “Ryan doesn’t even chew the meat, he just fucking swallows the meat down like he sucks cock!”

“And you would know how he sucks cock,” Brendon snickered.

Mikey sputtered and jerked his head a little bit, apparently muted. Brendon felt prideful about being able to shut Mikey up, however temporary. Mikey went back to calling Ryan and Brendon cheaters after a few seconds of fumbling.

“I’m gonna call for a recount,” Mikey huffed. “I challenge you again, Ross, but I want a new judge! I, I want Gee to judge. I want him to be the judge, cause I know he’ll be fair.”

“Bullshit,” Ryan snorted. “You’re choosing him because Gerard owes you for shipping him that soda he’s addicted to while he was in LA. He’s, like, the most biased son of a bitch you could chose. The only one that would be _more_ biased would be Ray. No, no, if you challenge me again, we need a good judge, like… Like Patrick.” Ryan nodded firmly to himself. “Patrick will be our judge.”

Mikey nodded, finally falling mostly silent. “Patrick has always been a really good judge. Remember when he called Pete out for cheating with the shots challenge?” Mikey smiled a bit. “He/s, like, the ultimate judge. Totally unbiased. My favorite judge ever.” Mikey sighed. “… Fuck, I hope he’s okay.”

“You’ve been brushing up on your sign language, right?” Ryan asked. Mikey nodded and Ryan looked to Brendon in the rearview mirror. “Patrick’s gonna lose his voice, probably, or be asked not to speak, so we all kinda learned sign language with him for just that reason. We’re not, like, super good at it or anything, except Pete. Pete got fluent. Patrick’s not even fluent, but Pete wanted to be fluent, just in case. So, just be sure to have someone around to help translate. He gets frustrated playing charades and that usually ends up with him stressed out and feeling handicapped and useless and we… we prefer that he doesn’t feel that way for as long as we can possibly help it.”

“Hard to believe someone can manage to stop him from talking,” Brendon tried to joke, wanting to show that he understood, yet needed to keep this light. Brendon knew that things were just going to get pretty melancholic soon. He didn’t want to lose this camaraderie and happiness just yet.

Mikey snorted and Ryan chuckled. “Don’t let Pete hear you say that,” Mikey advised. “He’ll either get pissy, or say something about his dick doing the trick more than once. Which, I’d believe. He has a really big dick. Not like Ray’s, but definitely something special.”

“I don’t wanna know about Pete’s dick,” Ryan said, scrunching up his adorable button nose. Brendon stared, a little enraptured, enjoying the myriad of expressions he saw Ryan wear. It made him feel like he was seeing all these little aspects of Ryan’s personage. He kinda wanted to see every single expression Ryan could make— even those of the more sordid kind. How else would he knew Ryan completely? And maybe, if he knew Ryan inside and out, his mind would stop yearning to know more than Brendon was ready to accept.

“We’re here,” Ryan said, pulling into a crowded parking lot. Brendon never liked to see busy hospitals. “We’ll check with the front desk and get Patrick’s room, then grab something for Pete to eat from the foodcourt, because you know he hasn’t left Patrick’s bedside.”

“Stubborn ass,” Mikey grumbled, unbuckling and climbing out. They went into the hospital and got the room number (room 325) before Ryan and Brendon went to grab something for Pete to consume while Mikey went straight up.

“You’re okay with all of this, right?” Ryan asked as Brendon tried to choose between regular and barbecue chips for Pete. “I know it has to be hard— coming to a new place, to this city, then landing in the streets, only to get out and face cancer.”

“I’m not facing cancer,” Brendon told him pointedly. “Patrick is.”

“But you’re his family, so you’re facing it with him. Not with the same threats or mortality that comes with it, but with the fear of death and losing someone you love, or are close to, at least. You’re just a kid, Brendon. You shouldn’t have to be faced with all this death. Not when you’re so young. So naked and unable to protect yourself. Not like an adult can.”   
Brendon narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to insult me? I’m not sure if you are.”

“I’m not,” Ryan sighed. “I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you being forced to take on more than you can handle. You know you can always come to me, right? Or to my apartment. If things ever become too much. My door is always open for you, and I know Mikey’s the same. Pete can be a real handful when Patrick’s, uh, h-hurting. It’s not something anyone on person can handle, let along a kid, trust me. If something goes wrong, or if you think something will go wrong, call me, okay?”

Brendon shrugged, not wanting to admit to being inept or out of his depth. “I can handle it,” he said wth a shrug. “I know what I’m doing. I volunteered at an old person’s home once. I saw one old lady who choked to death on her oatmeal. I can handle this.”  Ryan looked to him with a tired, sad gaze. “… If you’re sure. Just, know that I’m here. No matter what.”

Brendon smirked and bounced on his toes. “Think we should get them some cake? Everyone loves cake.”

Ryan nodded and grabbed a slice of chocolate cake without a word. Brendon wondered if he’d been wrong to feign confidence in an attempt to impress Ryan. Maybe he should’ve just accepted the help. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied.

Then again, Brendon was already lying to himself with vigor. What was a few more untruths?

. . .

“I’m telling you guys,” Patrick grumbled. “My nurse is a fucking cyborg. She’s got this twitch in her eyelid, a-and she forgot that I need to eat! Totally forgot my breakfast! What kind of nurse is that neglectful?”

“A busy one?” Mikey posed with a smirk. “I mean, she’s a nurse, Pat. She has a lot to do. A lot of other patients.”  “But there’s only one me,” Patrick whined. He was pretty high. He’d complained of a headache and Pete had badgered every person who walked past the door in smocks to give Patrick something for the pain. It had reportedly been a minuscule amount of painkillers, but Brendon was sure the minuscule amount came from something pretty strong. Pete could be a real stickler when it came to his husband. Brendon kinda felt bad for whichever orderly was placed over Patrick’s room. “I should be a priority, for fucking fuck’s sake. I have, like, money, and shit. And people that need me alive.”

“They’re changing your medical marijuana prescription,” Pete said. “They say, with the cancer coming back in a more vicious way, they’re gonna need you to stop doing so much shit with your throat.”

“And what other option is there that doesn’t involve it going down my god damn throat?” Patrick asked with a pissed off expression. Brendon totally understood where he was coming from. “What am I gonna do, Pete, inject it? Shove up my ass in the form of a pill? There’s no other option, Pete. I’ve got one way of taking it in, and that’s my throat.”

Pete grimaced. “I, I’m sorry. I don’t know. But it’s what they’re saying. There are bars, and we can make brownies! And there’s, like…” He faltered. “Uh. Water? Or something? I honestly don’t know, Patrick, and I’m so sorry.”

Patrick scowled and flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I have fucking cancer, Pete. I deserve to get high. I deserve to be fucking high as a kite, dancing on the ceiling, watching fucking stupid TV, like Rick & Morty or, or something stupider! I deserve to be fucking high and eating with the munchies and making out with you and getting fucked into the mattress, all slow and lazy and stupider than ever.”

“As much as I like how that sounds,” Pete sighed. “We have to do what the doctor thinks is best for you.”

“Fucking smoking fucking weed is good for me!” Patrick snapped.

“Mikey challenged Ryan to the wing eating competition, but lost,” Brendon interrupted, not wanting to listen to Patrick shouting. “And he’s really grumpy about it. He, he thought he could do it, but Ryan kinda, like, murdered him. It was brutal.”

Patrick and Pete stared at Ryan before both of them giggled. “Mikey should’ve known he couldn’t beat Ryan. Ryan knows how to eat and beat the meat.”

Mikey scowled. “I should’ve fucking won. Brendon and Ryan are a bunch of cheaters.”

“Oh my god, I agree!” Patrick gasped, sitting up. He was like a rollercoaster of emotion. “Dude, dude! Cause Brendon has that crush on Ryan, so of course he would totally let Ryan win! So he can get laid!”

Brendon flushed. “I have a girlfriend!” he tried to say confidently or angrily, but it came out as more of a squeak of panic. He wanted to get angry, he really did, because fuck Patrick for saying that about him, and especially in front of Ryan. “I’m not gay,” he defended weakly. “I, I have a girlfriend. Her name is Sarah Smiles and, and she likes smoothies and talking about constellations and thinks that Pluto should still be a planet.”

“Pluto should still be a planet,” Patrick spat with a vehement nod of agreement. “Fucking see it and shit. I can see it. It’s a planet.”

Brendon grinned. “She would agree, but with a lot more reasons and stuff. Like, like science reasons. She’s really smart! She wants to study to become a botanist! She can name all the dead flowers in the park and the types of trees you can find here in Chicago.”

Patrick giggled. 

“Dude,” Pete chuckled. “Way too early to be blushing when you talk about her.”

Brendon faltered, not realizing he’d been blushing. It had probably come from when Patrick had said Brendon had a crush on Ryan. Which wasn’t true at all.

“When’s your next date?” Mikey asked curiously. Ryan had been oddly silent with a stiff expression. Brendon watched Ryan for a long moment before answering, wondering if he should be careful about what he said so he didn’t make Ryan’s expression become any odder.

“We’re gonna go out again this Saturday,” he said. “She’s gonna teach me to roller blade. We’re gonna get vegan hot dogs and see if we can taste a real difference. Then we’re gonna find some art museum and pretend we know what’s going on and trick old people into believing the shit we say, because we’re gonna study art terms beforehand.”

“Sounds like fun,” Ryan murmured, still expressionless.

Brendon shrugged. “She’s a cool girl. A-and super pretty.” He smiled to himself. “So blue. She has eyes are almost as blue as Patrick’s! And she’s just this amazing example of what happens when the city grows for the person, not the person for the city.”

Pete snickered. “God damn, kid, you’ve got it bad.”

“Careful, now,” Mikey warned. “This is Chicago. The nicest people have the darkest secrets in their underwear drawer.”

“No one hides anything in their underwear drawers anymore,” Ryan told Mikey, sounding a bit upset. Brendon wasn’t going to dwell on that.

“I’m coming home tonight, B,” Patrick told Brendon in a moment of lucidity. “And you and I are gonna dress you up, nice and stylish. You’ll be the jazziest cat on the neon road.” 

Brendon grinned. “I look forward to it.”

. . .

“Your butt is so big that falling on it over a hundred times doesn’t hurt,” Sarah Smiles observed with a grin as she skated circles around Brendon, literally. “And you’re so clumsy! I love it, Brendon, I freaking love this. You’re making me feel so much better about my rather mediocre skills. Because, objectively? I’m like a pro.”

Brendon pouted, sticking his lower lip out as far as he could get it. Then he drew his lip into his mouth, biting down, looking up at Sarah Smiles and wondering if he would look even more inept if he asked for help to stand.

Sarah Smiles was on her phone, so that meant that no, Brendon wasn’t going to ask.

“I have some friends who want to hang out,” she told him. “They’re just down third. We’re gonna meet up and see what kind of trouble we can get up to, so why don’t you call your folks and tell them some bullshit, like how we’re at a movie or a play or something.”

Brendon paused as he struggled to stand. “You want me to lie?”

She snorted. “What, haven’t you lied to someone to get your way? All kids do that. Everyone does that, Brendon. It’s just the way we are. The way humanity is. We’re all just a bunch of fucking animals, killing and fucking to get our way. Lying is the most innocent thing you can do.”

Brendon grimaced, but nodded, finally managing to stand. He held onto the wall and shuffled/bladed his way to the end of the rink, getting out and walking/shuffling to table they’d claimed as their own by putting their shoes on the top next to paper plates that held slices of half eaten pizza. He sat down heavily and pulled out his phone, sending Pete a cheap message about something or another, a lame excuse as to why he wouldn’t be home until late at night. He had already made a promise to give Pete a moment of reprieve and take care of Patrick for an hour or so, so that Pete could take a shower, but that wasn’t going to happen anymore, sadly. Brendon felt bad. He really did. But Sarah Smiles…

“Let’s go, Brendon!’ Sarah Smiles exclaimed, sliding up to him with a wide grin. “Did they say it was okay? Because my friends are expecting us. They’re excited to meet you, want to know you’re not some stick in the mud or whatever. I told them you weren’t. You’re cool with this, right?” Brendon stared, a little entranced by the glisten of her lipgloss. He nodded dumbly, like he was in a dream. Sarah Smiles’ grin became a simpering quirk of her lips. She ducked down and pressed a wet, sticky kiss to the side of Brendon’s mouth. Brendon’s stomach flip flopped and he blushed a bright pink, matching her smile.

“Let’s go, Brendon,” she said, sitting and taking off her skates. Brendon mimicked her helplessly.

. . .

Sarah Smiles’ friends were cool.

There was one boy, a blond with tons of tattoos named Chris. A girl named Breezy and her boyfriend, Dallon. Two other girls that were sitting really close to each other named Hals and Haley, and then a final boy, a short guy with cropped hair named Kenny. They were all really chill for the first couple minutes, greeting Brendon calmly and professionally, the smell of smoke and perfume in the air.

It was someone’s apartment, and the walls were a deep pink, decorated with white shapes and swirls that come from the white of the ceiling and the white of the baseboard. The floors were wood, but covered in shag carpet, and there were blankets draped over the windows. It was dirty and there was trash piled high in one corner, but Brendon didn’t mind it. The room reminded him of New York.

Brendon was at ease until someone brought out the cocaine and started passing it around.

He tensed so seriously that Sarah Smiles, sitting beside him, felt it. She giggled and nudged him with her shoulder. “You okay, Brendon?” she asked. “It’s cool, you know. None of us have ever been caught before. It’s not as horrible as people say. It’s actually pretty nice.” She leaned against Brendon, choking Brendon in her girly scent. “You don’t feel much of anything, aside from awesome. It’s great. It’s an experience.”

“It’s a drug, and just that,” Dallon said from inside Breezy’s neck. “It’s a way to let loose. Don’t romanticize it with your idealistic attempts at an existentialist mentality.”

Sarah Smiles scowled and flipped Dallon off. “Eat shit and rot, Weekes.”

“It’d be more pleasant than listening to you,” Dallon shot back cooly. Sarah Smiles looked like she was about to launch across the room and tear him apart. Brendon wondered if they were actually even friends. Then he saw movement in his peripherals.

He glanced to his left and saw that Haley’s shirt was off and she was left in her bra while Hals kissed at her collarbone and held to her hips. Brendon squeaked and quickly adverted his eyes, so out of his depth and uncomfortable. He then wondered if Hals and Haley were actually together, or if they were _really_ getting messed up on the drugs. He could hear Haley moaned and whimpered, the wet sound of lips sicking on skin, and kept his gaze trained on the wall just behind Kenny’s ear. Kenny moved his head to meet Brendon’s eyes and smiled toothily. Brendon shuddered.

“I-I’m getting a phone call,”he lied, darting up and into the bathroom he’d been shown when he first entered the apartment. He didn’t feel as bad about lying to Sarah Smiles and her friends as he did about lying to Pete.

Brendon looked into the smudged mirror, reading the messages scribbled along the sides that were written in expo marker or lipstick. There was a shopping list (butter, milk, condoms), and a passionate statement of individuality (fuck off you piece of fucking shit, you can’t reclaim have what was never yours). He shuddered and turned on the sink, running his hands under the faucet, but quickly snapped them back when he discovered the water was automatically scalding, and stayed that way, no matter how far he turned the handle towards blue.

Brendon ran his hands over his face and knew he’d made a mistake.

But then again? He wanted to know Sarah Smiles. And he knew the best way to know a girl was to know her friends. Brendon wanted to be an individual, right? The things written on the mirror told him that this group was a group of unique people. He wanted to be unique, too. So he should stay with them and become unique alongside them. They could help make him an individual.

Brendon left the bathroom and reclaimed his seat beside Sarah Smiles, who was bent over a shard of mirror that had white tracks, clearing his throat. “I can’t do any of that right now. I have to be sober when I get back. My guardian has cancer, so I’m gonna be on watch duty for him for a bit.”

Kenny smirked. “Lame.”

Brendon smiled tightly. “Yeah, uh, yeah. Lame. So next time.”

Sarah Smiles shot up, sucking in air and stimulants through her left nostril while her long index finger he'd her right nostril closed. She turned to Brendon and smiled like the devil had given her everything she ever wanted. 

“Next time,” she repeated in a daze. Brendon secretly hoped there wouldn’t ever be a next time.

. . .

“I’m going to need a bit more of a warning next time,” Pete told Brendon at three A.M., when Brendon had finally come home. Pete was bustling around the apartment, going between folding laundry and doing the dishes and fixing Patrick’s dinner on the stove. “His voice is leaving. I’m gonna have a pad of paper by our bed and leave a bell on the nightstand. If you here it, please go see what he needs. Patrick hates relying on either people, so I can promise you that he won’t ring that thing unless he absolutely needs help.”

Brendon nodded, watching Pete uselessly. “You should hire a maid.”

Pete shook his head. 

“Why not?” Brendon asked. “Do you not trust people? Isn’t that kinda prejudice? Not everyone is a villain, you know.” He’d been talking to Dallon and Hals for the entire night, listening to them wax poetic justice on the injustices of poetry, sexism, and the workforce. Brendon felt a lot more enlightened after all of that. Haley had lost her bra halfway through the trip, and Brendon had been very good about avoiding looking at her breasts.

Pete narrowed his eyes at the underwear he was folding, not at Brendon. “We don’t hire help because Patrick’s medical bills are somewhat important. We can’t just go spending money willy nilly without running the numbers. I can afford the occasional allowance to you, and we’re definitely not in the red or anything, but I’m perfectly able to dust the furniture and sweep the floors. Once I can’t, I’ll see about hiring someone. Until then? We’re saving the money.”

Brendon shrugged, shoulders to his ears, and went to the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk.

“Brendon?” Pete called out softly. Brendon didn’t like how achingly tired Pete sounded, so he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see the expression that would match the voice. “What we’re going through… It’s not going to be easy. I’m just asking you to help me take care of my husband while he goes through chemo and fights this cancer. I can’t do this alone. I’ve never done this alone. I-I could get Ryan like last time, but he’s so busy. He’s keeping Mikey on his feet while Ray’s gone, and he works with DCD2. He’s an adult now, I can’t rely on him like I used to. I’m begging you to just help me with Patrick. This is too much to take on by myself.”

Brendon wanted to tell Pete that he’d lied about here he’d been, but knew he couldn’t. It would only make Pete’s voice hurt more. He wished he could promise to be someone that Brendon didn’t really want to be. He wanted to be with Sarah Smiles and her friends and figure out who he was. He was sure that he was making the right decision by being with Sarah Smiles. It would hurt to put Patrick aside once or twice, but he knew that Pete could handle it.

“I’ll do my best,” Brendon compromised. Then, to change the subject: “I’d like to get my GED. So I can at least try to make a name for myself.”

Pete didn’t respond for a while, so Brendon turned around cautiously. Pete was staring at Brendon like he was trying to read Brendon’s mind. Brendon tensed and tried not to break Pete’s gaze, because that would be an admission of weakness and harboring guilt.

“Are you gonna try to help me with Patrick?” Pete asked again.

Brendon nodded, though he didn’t dare articulate.

“Good,” Pete sighed. “Can you bring that soup to him? He’s awake and his throat his killing him. Something hot always helps.”

“Did you guys break up the band because he was losing his voice?”

Pete grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

Brendon just ducked his head and brought Patrick his dinner. 

Patrick didn’t even smile at Brendon, and Brendon didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t be able to smile, either, knowing that he put and end to his husband’s dream.

. . .

Sarah Smiles invited him out again, this time with only Dallon. She brought Brendon to a man’s house that was in the middle of suburbia, an hour long drive from the city in Dallon’s old minivan that still had the retro stripe of wood along the side. Brendon spent most of it in the back seat, while Sarah Smiles sat in the front passenger’s. Sarah Smiles kept flicking through the radio stations as she and Dallon passed a joint around. Brendon had denied a hit. He didn’t mind getting high, really, but he didn’t trust Dallon yet.

Brendon’s phone vibrated again and he looked down with a grimace, knowing it was Ryan checking up on him about checking up on Pete and Patrick. Brendon had given Pete a weak excuse about going on a date and not knowing how long he’d be out, which Pete had only bought because Patrick had started chemo therapy and was already losing his hair. Brendon was finding it hard to be around the husbands because he couldn’t stand seeing their broken hearted and hopeless expressions. Brendon knew he’d promised to be there for the Wentz’s, but he found he couldn’t. He was going to break his word because he had to do what was best for himself. Just like fighting in the streets for what was left in a dumpster.

“You’re gonna meet some more friends of ours,” Sarah Smiles told Brendon over Creed’s “Roadhouse Blues.” 

“And we’ve got a proposition for you, Brendon. A very serious one,” Dallon added, eyes on the road. “So you’re gonna have to bear with us on this. Keep the faith. Sarah Smiles wants you in on it cause she trusts you and thinks it’ll be good for you, that you would want the opportunity. I don’t know if she’s right, but I’m not gonna jump the gun or anything.”

Brendon didn’t know what that meant, but he was instantaneously nervous.

Sarah Smiles turned around in her seat to grin at him, though, and the nerves were drowned by her. They existed, but only in the back of his mind. He knew she wouldn’t get him into any sort of trouble, let alone get him hurt. He knew he could trust her. It was probably something like being a backdrop of whatever homemade movie someone was trying to catch their break on. Brendon had been in one or two of those before for school and classmates and stuff— sometimes unwittingly. Delusions of grandeur when it came to becoming a movie star or a direction was almost a plague in New York. Brendon wouldn’t mind acting in a play, though. He always enjoyed having some sort of written purpose. 

“We’re here!” Sarah Smiles announced as Dallon pulled up in front of the mundane looking home. She was bouncing in her seat, smiling excitedly, and naming the different people that owned the other cars parked in front of the home. Brendon tensed and hoped he wouldn’t have to meet new people and actually socialize. Brendon shuddered and tried not to let it get to him.

Sarah Smiles almost ran out of the car, tugging open Brendon’s door so he’d have to follow. Brendon reluctantly exited the car, looking down at his shoes and hoping he didn’t look too stupid or anything. He wanted to be friendly with Sarah Smiles’ friends so he wouldn’t be ostracized. 

“Chill, dude,” Dallon said as he walked past Brendon, his steps confident and aloof. Brendon watched him with jealousy. “Everyone here is gonna be on something, so no one’s gonna care if you accidentally act like a freak.”

Brendon winced. 

Dallon remained unapologetic. 

There was music and haze inside the house, some sound low and hypnotic. Sarah Smiles was already moving from person to person. There were about seven people that Brendon could see, and he didn’t want to meet any of them. The house itself was dingy and rundown, and it looked like almost all the walls had been knocked out, save the ones around the bathroom. There was a huge hole in the ceiling that had tapestries and sheets and scarves hanging from them, acting as decoration to obviously give the hole in the ceiling a purpose. There was spray painted words and art and tags covering the walls. Past the haze and drugs, the entire house smelled like gym socks.

There was one girl sitting in the corner, wrapped up in a giant hoodie, staring at one of the pictures on the wall. It was some sort of smiley face with a spider crawling out of a hole in the head. She was murmuring to herself, scratching at her cheek. At first, Brendon was going to get really freaked out. But then a boy, a small skinny guy wearing bright colors came over with a glass of water. He pushed the girl’s hand from her face and smiled, taking the hand and putting the glass of water in it instead, giving her something to occupy her hands. He sat down next to her and pulled out his phone, showing her something stupid with flashing lights and loud music. Brendon watched them both for a very long time.

“Brendon!” Sarah gasped. “You have to come meet Jeremy! He’s the one who wants the thing! Or, I want the thing. But trust me, it’s gonna be great.” 

She took Brendon’s hand, and her palm felt deliciously warm. Brendon felt a unique sort of high come over him, originating from his fingertips, and his cheeks reddened. He stared at Sarah Smiles’ hand, her arm, to her head. She was smiling and waving and being so fucking cheerful. Brendon knew he could learn a thing or two from her.

“This is Jeremy,” Sarah introduced. She went up to a blond guy covered with tattoos and sat in his lap, beginning to play with his hair. “He’s the raddest dude in the city. He does charity work at a shelter that doesn’t kill cats and stuff, and he likes eating cinnamon rolls.” 

Sarah Smiles grinned, and said, “I want you to help me sell drugs, Brendon.”

. . .

Brendon was midway home, and had been walking for hours. He hadn’t meant to just leave the house like that— he’d panicked. He’d heard Sarah coming after him for a long while and had really appreciated the gesture and effort, but his heart was beating rabbit fast, and he was worried he was going to have a heart attack. He wanted to call Pete, needed to call Pete, because right now he was just heading for the skyscrapers, but once he got into the city, he was clueless as to how to get home. All the buildings looked the same at one in the morning.

Brendon shuddered and wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to shield himself from the infamous wind that he hated almost as much as he hated the snow. Everything was sludgy and icy and Brendon wasn’t wearing the right shoes for this hell.

The tiny baggies of cocaine in the glasses case was a burning a hole in his back pocket.

Brendon knew he should call someone. He could already feel himself getting sick, he knew he was going to be dead on his feet with a head cold at the least in a few hours. Brendon prayed he didn’t get sick enough to pass out, because he didn’t want to get picked up by an ambulance with the drugs in his pants. He’d be arrested and his name would be put into the system and he’d probably come up as a missing person and then he’d be sent home, to New York. Brendon didn’t want to be sent to New York.

The fear of a cop seeing him, so ineptly dressed, suddenly hit Brendon like a brick. IF he was spotted, he would probably be stopped and questioned and offered a ride, and normally, that’d be fine, but Brendon was a bad liar and horrible at acting like he wasn’t doing something wrong, so he knew the cop would pick up on the fact that Brendon was definitely hiding something.

Fuck, Brendon needed to call someone.

He pulled out his phone and bit his lip as he scrolled through the scarce numbers he had programmed into the device, not knowing who he could trust enough to take him back to Pete and not ask any questions as to why he was in the suburbia of Chicago with only two layers on, and wearing Toms. He eventually settled on Frank’s number, because he seemed like the least likely to fuck him over. Brendon didn’t know him well, he hardly knew him at all, but knew it was worth the shot.

 _“Uh, I mean, yeah?”_ Frank answered once they got over the greetings and Brendon requested his help. _“Yeah, I can totally pick you up. Just, like…”_ There was a pause, and Brendon waited with bated breath. _“Look, I’m actually just about to leave to pick someone up from the airport, someone kinda important and shit. So I’ll grab you, but I won’t be able to take you home immediately.”_

Brendon was really surprised by how active all of Pete’s friends were after midnight.

“So, is that okay?” Frank asked. “I mean, you could always call Ryan or some—”

“I don’t want to call Ryan,” Brendon interrupted.

Frank paused. “… Well okay, then. Weird. I’ll be there in, like, third minutes. Just stay put, okay? I’m putting in the home address you game me. Don’t go anywhere, or else I’ll definitely lose you, and then you’ll probably die out there.”

Brendon didn’t like Frank’s pessimism. “Thank you.”

Brendon wandered to the edge of the sidewalk and sat down. He could feel the glasses case, making it hard to sit. He didn’t know the first thing about selling drugs. He didn’t know the first thing about drugs. What was his economic standing? If he did manage to sell something (which he was pretty sure he had to do), how much did he get and how much was he supposed to give the dealer? How did he find people to sell to? What was he supposed to do if someone stole all of his drugs? What if he just did all the cocaine? Did he have to give Jeremy the amount he would have received from other buyers? 

Fuck, how much did cocaine even cost?

Brendon pulled out his phone and looked up what he could find online. He’d been stupid to agree to this. He didn’t want to mess up and make things worse for himself, get into even more trouble. Brendon was supposed to be a good Mormon kid, not a fucking drug dealer.

When Frank finally showed up, Brendon’s lips were blue and he was beyond joyfully grateful to see Frank pulled up in a car that looked like it cost the same as a full four year’s worth of a college education. Loud music shook the car and Brendon darted forward, opening the door and sliding in.

“Sup, man,” Frank greeted lamely, like he didn’t know how else to say hello to a nearly perfect stranger.

“Thanks for this,” Brendon said, holding his hands to the air vents that were blasting heat. 

“No problem,” Frank replied with an undertone to his voice that Brendon could’t read. “So, we’re picking up Gee, by the way. Mikey wanted to come, but since I was grabbing you and I figured you didn’t want him to find out, I made up some lame excuse about wanting some time alone with his brother.”

Brendon tried not to grimace and just nodded. “I’ll sit in the back on the way home so I don’t get in your way.”

Actually?” Frank began to grin a little. “I was thinking you could drive.”

. . .

When Frank saw Gerard, he barreled out of the car and ran into the man like a bullet, wrapping his arms around him and nearly forcing him to the ground. Gerard stumbled a bit, smiling wide, and Brendon noticed he had really small teeth. Frank kept moving forward, and Gerard did end up falling flat on his ass with Frank on top of him. It was… It was kinda sweet.

“God, I’ve missed you so much,” Frank giggled, high pitched and borderline psycho. He had his nose to Gerard’s nose, squishing Gerard’s cheeks in his hands. He was straddling Gerard’s torso, knees on either side of Gerard’s ribs, and Brendon wondered if someone thought they were fighting, which they definitely weren’t. Brendon turned his head to the side and saw that Frank was now just kissing the daylight out of Gerard, little grunts filling the air as Gerard seemed to struggle to keep up. Brendon felt a faint blushed rise to his cheeks and he quickly looked away when he saw that Frank was starting to grope at different parts of Gerard.

It didn’t get much better once Brendon started to drive them home, albeit, very slowly. Frank had his tongue so far down Gerard’s throat that Brendon knew Gerard would be much louder without it. 

Brendon was pretty good at driving, he knew he was, because he’d taken his older brother’s car around a lot a few hundred times, and Brendon could get that baby up to a hundred miles per hour with ease and just float over the asphalt. Brendon actually loved driving and he knew he was really, really good at it, regardless of how few opportunities he’d had to practice in New York.

But it was difficult to focus on the road when their was soft core porn happening in the backseat.

“Frankie, Frankie, Frankie!” Gerard kept whimpered, almost begging, reaching a higher pitch with each repetition. Brendon’s whole body felt like it was on fire, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His speed on the road was either too fast or too slow, and he couldn’t control where his eyes were looking, because _he wanted to watch._

Brendon almost had to pull over once or twice, just because he really wasn’t able to tear his eyes from the rearview mirror, from where Frank had his hand dipped into the hem of Gerard’s pants, where Gerard had a grip of Frank’s neck, where he could see Gerard’s pretty, red lips gasp and cry out Frank’s name. 

Brendon barely got them home in one piece.

What was worse was that “home” was Ryan and Mikey’s place. 

Brendon met Frank’s eyes in the rearview, expression panicked and a little betrayed. Frank was able to pull his lips from Gerard’s long enough to say that he’d lie about where he found Brendon, just say he’d met him at a diner, and that was it. No comment to Ryan. Brendon relaxed, but just barely. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to make it upstairs to the apartment without giving away his huge fucking problem.

Okay, well, not that huge. Brendon didn’t have much to brag about in the size area, and he was too tired to be really upset about the fact that he got turned on by that stuff, but Brendon wasn’t going to dwell on that. He was going to just blame it on the fact that Gerard sounded like a girl when he moaned. He had hair down to his shoulders, so that helped the lie.

Gerard and Frank disappeared into the last room at the end of the hall that was usually locked soon after they all got upstairs. Ryan had smirked a bit and Mikey had looked very jealous. The two men got so loud that Brendon was worried they were actually fist fighting until Mikey had told him that they just really liked it rough and bloody, and weren’t satisfied until they were too bruised for another round. Brendon wasn’t sure if that was healthy, but Mikey and Ryan didn’t seem very concerned. 

“You okay?” Ryan asked Brendon softly. “You weren’t answering my texts.”

Brendon didn’t answer at first, struggling to come up with something. But Ryan was looking at him so earnestly, expression almost begging for an answer that would alleviate his fears. Brendon couldn’t lie to that face. He couldn’t lie to Ryan.

“I was with Sarah Smiles,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. I wanted to see her, she, she means a lot to me. I wanted to see her, Ryan. I’ve been so anxious, been watching Patrick day and night, I just needed a break. I needed to see her. I’m sorry.”

Ryan’s expression became less pleading and more unreadable. “… You left Pete and Patrick?”

Brendon nodded, wringing his hands in the bottom of his shirt. He didn’t know if he was in trouble or not, but he knew that he shouldn’t try to take anything he’d said back, and he shouldn’t try to lie about this, either. 

“I left,” he said, looking down at his shoes for the second time in twenty-four hours. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left, it was wrong of me, a-and I won’t let it happen again.”

“You better not let it,” Ryan murmured. “Because Pete can’t do this alone. So why don’t you just tell me now whether or not this is gonna happen again, so I can be there for them since you can’t.”

Brendon tensed. “… I-I’ll be there for them. I will. I’m sorry.”

Ryan nodded. “You can take my bed again. I’m gonna call Pete and let him know you’re okay.” He turned, then paused. “You can’t keep staying out this late. If there’s an emergency in the middle of the night, you need to be there.”

Brendon nodded. He turned and went to the Ryan’s bedroom. It still smelled like Ryan, Brendon had known it would. He crawled onto the bed and tried to relax, tried to let the scent drive away all the anxiety and guilt and fear, but it wasn’t working. The case full of drugs was bruising his skin and he couldn’t drown in Ryan as long as that pain remained. 

But he was too scared to let it go, for fear of being caught.


	5. Down and Out Without an End in Sight (Who Knew Cemeteries could be So Bright)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what goes up must come down, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so we're delving into Brendon being hella gay and that actually manifesting itself
> 
> Brendon makes himself do a thing he isn't sure of, so there is one the consent issues i warned about. if that really bothers you, like a lot, stop reading when you get to Sarah in Brendon's lap and message me at the bottom. i'll tell you what happens.

_“So, I’m gonna refer a few people I usually sell to, to you, so you can get your footing,”_ Sarah told him over the phone, sounding like she was making something in the kitchen, something loud and that popped, probably bacon. But Sarah didn’t eat meat, so Brendon didn’t know what her making bacon could mean. _“Jeremy says that he’s not expecting much from you for this first round, so don’t worry! The stakes aren’t too high! Deadline for payment is in three weeks, but he’s gonna give you a full month, too.”_

“Why’d you ask me to do this, Sarah?” Brendon asked softly, not realizing he was omitting the rest of what he believed Sarah’s name to be.

 _“Well, you live with those two guys, right? And you’re unhappy? You sound unhappy, you always look upset when I bring them up, so that means that you want something else, I know it does cause I know you.”_ Sarah was smiling as she spoke; Brendon could hear it in her voice. _“You want something more, something you. You don’t like being the second glance. If you move out, you won’t be anything but you.”_

Brendon shut his eyes and tried to breathe past the ultimatum Sarah thought he wanted to be given. He didn’t want to move out, maybe. He liked living with Pete and Patrick, he liked feeling safe and secure in more ways than one. He liked knowing he’d been picked off the streets and kept safe and sound inside an expensive home with any type of food he could ever what, and a piece of paper he could write on to specify a food they didn’t have. The grocery fairies would bring it, and Brendon wasn’t ten, but he really had never seen Pete go grocery shopping. 

He was safe and happy here, and he had a semblance of a future while with Pete. He had a bed and a dresser and a toilet, he had clothes and a guardian that would give him money if he asked for it. He had a lock on his door, and the next, and he was helping with Patrick and making food and taking care of the place during chemo sessions. He’d only had the drugs for three days, but he could see them, sitting on his dresser, like fire in the middle the night, like fucking fireworks or cannon fire announcing an impending awful. Pete didn’t come into Brendon’s room because he was always with Patrick when he was home from work. The chemo was taking its toll already, and Patrick didn’t like leaving the apartment. The apartment had grown stuff and too warm, even for the winter, and Patrick was almost always angry.

Brendon bit his lip and considered moving out. He was a kid with a lot to lose, but had already lost all of that before, so he could survive losing it all again. And it was becoming spring, spring into summer, and then some, so he could easily last on the streets without freezing to death. He was just having second thoughts about how safe and happy he felt here with how volatile Patrick could be.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to move out,” he confessed softly. “I’m only sixteen. I-I’m not an adult, I’ve never been an adult, except…”

Sarah paused and waited patiently. Brendon had never told her about how he’d been homeless and starving for so long. He’d been so well fed since then that it was hard to notice anything and ever been so amiss in Brendon’s life. 

“I just don’t know if I can handle it,” he sighed.

 _“Baby steps,”_ Sarah said confidently. _“Okay, Brendon? Baby steps. We’ll get some money in your pocket that isn’t form those Wentz cancer assholes, and see how you feel. You could even come live with me and Dallon and Breezy! We’re very happy, and our place is nice. I think you’d really like it. Oh my god, hey! Why don’t you come over tomorrow?”_

Brendon bit his lip, thinking. “… Patrick has chemo therapy tomorrow from one to eight, so I can definitely sneak out. Where do I go?”

 _“The Midwest apartments,”_ Sarah told him with an excited edge. _“On Hamlin? North Hamlin. We’re on the third floor, room 327. Come up! I wanna see you! We’ve got a Nintendo 360 and Breezy is gonna make chimichangas tonight, but we can always order pizza if Mexican isn’t your thing. Oh, oh, and bring something warm to wear. We sneak out on the roof sometimes. I have a telescope!”_

Brendon smiled softly to himself as the plans were laid out. “Sounds amazing. Be seeing you, Smiles.”

Sarah hung up without a goodbye, and Brendon sighed.

. . .

“Do you wanna come over for dinner?” Ryan asked Brendon when he came over to visit Pete and Patrick later that night. He sounded nervous, like he was scared of Brendon, or scared of Brendon saying no. Brendon thought he was kinda dumb for asking in the first place.”

“Why would I?” Brendon replied, shoulders tense. It almost looked like Ryan flinched at the coldness in Brendon’s voice. Ever since he’d let Ryan down so monumentally, he'd grown a cold shoulder to the man, wanting to distance himself. Sarah said she thought it was stupid that he regarded Ryan’s opinion of himself so highly, that Brendon shouldn’t let anyone make their opinions so impressionable on him, so Brendon was working on not giving a fuck about Ryan at all.

“I just…” Ryan shrugged. “I thought it’d be nice for you. To be among friends. Gerard’s been asking about you, wondering who you are and stuff. He said that you had really good driving skills, which is odd, because you don’t have a license.”

Pete was smirking in the background when Ryan said that. He and Patrick were at the table, going over the mail. Patrick looked tired and grim faced.

“I think it’d be a good break for you to be with your family,” Ryan continued shakily.

Brendon sighed like this was a huge inconvenience to him, then caught Pete’s eye. Pete’s expression was that of a disappointed and chiding mother. Brendon grimaced and looked away from Pete, then nodded. “I’ll go.”

Ryan perked up and smiled a bit. “Yeah? Really?”

Brendon nodded again with a grumpy face.

“Okay, yeah,” Ryan murmured, smiling wider. “Cool. Let’s go.”

Brendon put shoes on with heavy movements and tried to make himself act like less of an asshole before he got in trouble with his guardians.

. . .

Gerard Way was an eccentric and excitable man with too much going on in his head for his own good, and a penchant for getting distracted by Mikey’s verbal interruptions, and Frank’s tattooed fingers. He talked about anything and everything, waving his hands in the air and sitting on the edge of his seat, like he thought being closer to the person he was talking to made it easier for them to understand. His left leg bounced continuously and his tiny teeth shone as he grinned while he spoke.

Ryan was sitting next to Mikey on the opposite end of the table, while Frank was between Ryan and Gerard, and Brendon was beside Gerard with Mikey in front of him. It was a weird setup, but it allowed Frank to grope and play with Gerard’s skin whenever he felt like he needed to, and Ryan could lean into Mikey like he actually needed to. Brendon watched Mikey as he played with Ryan’s hair and felt jealously roil in his gut, but he wasn’t going to let it show on his face, and he definitely wasn’t going to act on it. He was supposed to be belittling what Ryan meant to him, not grudging a few fingers against a scalp. Especially if it was Ryan’s scalp.

Brendon’s stomach was full of delivery Chinese, and the unused TV was on, showing a Discovery Channel program on people fishing and thinking they were a lot more badass than they actually were. Half of the dialogue was censored, and Brendon kept glancing to the screen, wondering how many times a week people got hurt while fishing tuna. Gerard was ranting about socioeconomics within the Batman universe, and how Superman versus Batman would never be that good of a movie, because the entire plot of the film was spelled out in the latest commercial. Or at least, that was what Brendon had last tuned in on. He redirected his attention to Gerard to play catch up.

“And that’s why men with their foreskins still attached have a considerable more pleasurable experience, which makes blowing onto the head even better, and you can totally be called the dick whisperer after doing that trick, and Frankie once—”

“The dick whisperer,” Mikey repeated in a dramatic boom, voice going as deep as he could possibly make that. “Frankie, get dick whisperer tattooed somewhere. I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

“I’ll do it for free if Gee draws me an undead Mickey Mouse saying it,” Frank hummed, playing with the skin on the bottom of Gerard’s elbow. 

“That’d be sexy,” Gerard moaned. “Where do you have free space? Your inner thigh? I can draw you that for your inner thigh.”

“I’m getting your name there, so people know where your head belongs,” Frank said with a wink. He turned to Brendon and stage whispered, _”his head belongs between my legs!”_ , like it was some big secret that Frank and Gerard were a pair of sex addicts that found their perfect match.

“Is that Alaska State troopers?” Mikey asked suddenly, looking to the screen. Then his phone went off. Mikey snapped his eyes down to the device, jumping to his feet and all but running to his room. Ryan watched him go with a lonely expression, like he needed Mikey to be there. Brendon seethed and caught himself glaring at Mikey’s bedroom door.

“Let’s find some shitty movie,” Frank giggled, standing.

A “shitty movie” turned out to be the third Spiderman with Tobey McGuire. Brendon had never seen it, and everyone else considered him lucky forces ignorance, but also had no problem making him watch the whole thing. It was during the scene where Peter Parker became a massive, emo douche, and walked around flirting with girls like a tool, when Mikey came out of his room.

His eye were red rimmed and tearful, and his hands were shaking. He rushed to the sofa, almost running, and pulled Ryan’s head back by his hair, kissing him from upside down.

“Hey!” Brendon snapped before he could stop himself. No one heard him because they were too busy wondering why Mikey was kissing Ryan while he was crying, but Ryan didn’t seem all that surprised. He held Mickey’s face and didn’t pull away until Mikey did.

“R-Ray might be another month,” Mikey choked out once he finally disconnected. “Ryan, h-he’ll he gone even longer! He could f-fucking die! I can’t lose him, I-I can’t lose…” Mikey trailed off with a sob and Gerard got up pulled Mikey onto the sofa and into his lap. Mikey looked particularly tiny in Gerard’s lap, knees curled to his chest. He was sniffling and clinging to his brother’s shirt, wiping his eyes. Then he reached back for Ryan’s hand, and pulled Ryan forward to Ryan was hugging him too, soaking up comfort like a leech. Brendon was still really pissed about the kiss. Brendon wanted to leave the apartment so he wouldn’t have to see more of Ryan codling Mikey when Ryan should be pissed that Mikey kissed him without his permission like that. Was this what Mikey had meant by Ray allowing Mikey to fool round while he was away.

Brendon really didn’t like that.

“I-I-I just want him home,” Mikey sobbed, and Brendon couldn’t even feel sorry for him with how upset he was. “I just want him home, I want him home, I need him home!”

“I’m sorry, Mikes,” Gerard murmured, tone laden with regret. “But he’s gonna be a bit longer. He’s gotta keep us safe, Mikes. He’s gotta keep you safe. That’s what keeps him going, you know? That’s why he fights. It’s the only way he can fight.”

Mikey sobbed harder and started shaking and Brendon wanted to leave.

. . .

Sarah’s apartment was much cleaner than he’d expected for drug dealers. He’d found out that Dallon sold as well, and Breezy actually knew the manufacturer? Or something like that. Brendon wasn’t sure why it mattered to him, but it seemed like something he should remember, just in case. Maybe he’d get interrogated by the police once he fucked up or something.

But the apartment was pretty nice. Small, with only one other bedroom that they all shared. Sarah didn’t seem to mind it, just showed Brendon around proudly, pointing out the DVD collection and the really bad painting Breezy had done that was displayed on the wall next to the fridge. Brendon had had to pretend to like it.

“So, I got you some customers,” Sarah said. “They know that they’re gonna have a new dealer, so they won’t freak out when you see you. Just, like, show up and give them what they want and they’ll give you the money, and you’ll be golden as sunshine!”

“A-and if I get arrested?” Brendon asked, something that had been at the forefront of his mind.

“You won’t get arrested,” Sarah told him confidently. “You’re too vanilla to be suspected to be dealing. Definitely too much like a soft bellied love bug.”

Brendon wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew it probably wasn’t a compliment.

“So vanilla,” Breezy almost sang from the kitchen stove. She was on something, definitely, and had fake flowers weaved in her hair, looking like a woodland fairy in the middle of the iron city of Chicago. Brendon could see the appeal in everything about her, why Dallon was so protective of her when they were outside, in front of people Dallon didn’t know. Brendon could understand being possessive of her. “I wonder what… vanilla feels like…”

Dallon came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the back of her neck. Brendon could hear her whispering soft words to her, little praises and terms of endearment. Breezy smiled like she was in a haze of nothing and began to hum a Beatles song under her breath.

Brendon wanted that, he really did. He could picture it. Sarah, making something on the stove or cutting something or doing whatever. Brendon would come up behind her and hug her like Dallon was hugging Breezy, press his front to her back, sway gently. He kiss her neck and keep his head back to be kissed, enjoying the soft touch of the other person’s lips to his neck. He would try not to burn the food, would listen to the other person sing to him, enjoy the firmness of Ryan behind him and press the curve of his ass against the curve of Ryan’s co—

Brendon shook his head viciously to stop thinking, stop picturing, stop imaging Ryan touching him like that. He, he wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be like that. He wasn’t.

Brendon turned and took Sarah by the wrist to kiss her for no other reason than wanting to be validated and know that he wasn’t like that. Sarah’s lips were sticky and too wet and he didn’t like the bubblegum flavored chapstick she was wearing. It tasted too much like plastic and sugar that wasn’t quite real. He found himself wanting thin, chapped lips that were dry from talking in a monotone and kissing men with boyfriends overseas.

Brendon hated himself and kissed Sarah harder.

Sarah giggled against his lips and held his chest. Brendon knew this was getting out of hand, though, when her tongue slipped out past the bubblegum lies and tried to get inside his own mouth. He shuddered, the sensation unpleasant, and didn’t like how he could feel her breasts pressing into his body. Brendon pulled away abruptly.

“You’re such a big boy,” Sarah said with a wink. “Didn’t expect you to start something, Anything, really. But I liked it.” She moved past Brendon, towards the happy couple in the kitchen. “Breezy better drown my enchilada in hot sauce!”

Brendon wiped his mouth with the back of his hands.

. . .

Brendon was pretty sure Breezy had put something else in the enchiladas, because the ceiling was amazing, and so was the heat radiating from Dallon, who was pressed against him. The two boys were squished together on the small love seat, watching Sarah and Breezy dance to some EDM trance bullshit that Brendon would never be able to remember. They were starting to grind on each other, hips and thighs pressed together moving to the beat that made Brendon feel like he was slowly losing his ability to discern reality from fiction, measure by measure. Brendon watched them dance, entranced, wondering why people were so okay with girls being so promiscuous with the same sex, and not with men.

Then Sarah and Breezy were kissing, slow moments of their mouths together, heady and delicate at the same time, like they were the very drugs they’d consumed. He couldn’t look away as Sarah’s hands slid up Breezy’s shirt, touching skin Brendon couldn’t see.

Dallon beside him started to smile like he was looking at something worthwhile and enticing, and Brendon imagined that it was. Lesbian porn was a favorite among warm-blooded men, or so Brendon had heard. Lesbian porn never really did much for him. He knew why that was, and refused to acknowledge it. Dallon was beginning to move in his seat, getting into a more comfortable position. Brendon glanced to him, then saw that Dallon was… he, he was getting hard. And Brendon really couldn’t look away now. 

He stared at the growing bulge in Dallon’s pants, eyes wide and wondering. 

Dallon snorted a laugh. “Looks like Brendon’s a fag.”

Brendon flinched and tore his eyes away, unable to defend himself because he couldn’t explain what had just happened. “I-I’ll see you guys later,” he said in a rush, standing and leaving and stepping into the cold faster than he could think. 

He couldn’t explain his thoughts, and that scared him.

. . .

Brendon stood in a parking lot, away from the streetlight, the last of February’s snow falling around him. It was actually February twenty-ninth, that weird day added to the beginning of the year to keep some semblance of continuity and order, and Brendon though it was dumb. He knew it was (arguably) necessary, he just thought the extra day was useless and created unnecessary confusion for people who were born on the day that existed only once ever four years. Brendon was happy he’d been born in April.

He stomped his feet, let out puffs of hot air into his gloved hands, and tried to look inconspicuous. He didn’t know the first thing about selling drugs. Sarah had told him the customer show up, give him the money, take the drugs, and that was it, that was all Brendon would have to do, but what if something went wrong? What if they tried to steal from him? What if they were an undercover cop? What if they were already on something and stabbed Brendon in the stomach? Brendon didn’t want to get stabbed in the stomach. Or anywhere, really.

Fuck, Brendon didn’t want die tonight over some girl.

A car drove up, and Brendon tensed, hands becoming tight fists. He didn’t know if this was the guy. He couldn’t see much, couldn’t actually make out even the color of the car or what model it is. Brendon realized that he wouldn’t know who this guy was, what he looked like, until the guy was right in front of him. That was disconcerting.

A large figure got out of the car and started walking towards Brendon. Brendon ducked his head, letting the shadow from his hood hide his face, hoping to look like some sort of threat or someone not to mess with while standing in a corner, hunched over like he needed to protect himself. Brendon knew he was the least threatening person you could ever come across, even though he was slightly above average height. He was just… he was soft around the edges and in the middle. He had love handles and big lips and large brown eyes that old women loved to talk about. He was the least threatening you could ever ben and he probably should have brought a gun or something.

Brendon looked up as feet came to a stop in his line of sight. His heart sunk when he recognized the customer.

“You’re… Brendon, right?” Bob was frowning like he couldn’t actually accept the fact that Brendon was the kid trying to sell him illegal drugs. This was Frank’s friend, too, and Brendon considered himself friends with Frank at this point, so Frank was going to know about this by tomorrow morning, and then Gerard would know, then Mikey, then Pete, and then Brendon would be in so much trouble. He could be on the streets again by the day after tomorrow. “Why are you replacing my dealer? Does Pete not give you a good enough allowance?”

Brendon winced and ducked his head, trying to hide again, wishing he could take away Bob’s memory of seeing his face.

“Seriously, kid,” Bob said, trying to get Brendon’s attention back. “What the fuck? You’re not even out of high school and you’re already fucking yourself over. This is gonna get you into a shit load of trouble for the rest of your life if you keep this shit up. Could get you arrested— or worse. I’m gonna have to tell Pete about this.”

“No, please!” Brendon gasped, reaching out and grabbing Bob’s hand against his better judgement. “Don’t, d-don’t tell Pete. Please. He’ll put me on the streets again, a-and I’ll die out there. I’ll die this time.” He remembered he was confident just yesterday about being able to live without a home again. How stupid he had been. “I don’t want to die, Bob. I-I just want to have friends.”

“Friends? Is that why you’re doing this? Bullshit friends who aren’t really your friends at all? Real friends wouldn’t make stipulations for friendship, like selling fucking drugs. Those are shitty friends, Brendon. Stick with Ryan or something. You don’t need friends like these, you need actual, good, constructive people who want you to succeed in, like, fucking everything.”

“I need to keep my friends,” Brendon repeated, hands shaking.

Bob sighed. “… Do you have my drugs?”

Brendon nodded and reached into his pockets, but making the movement casual. He brought out his phone with the drugs, keeping the phone on top of the two small packets to cover them. Then he surreptitiously slid his phone to the other hand and shook Bob’s outstretched hand, trading the drugs. Bob smirked and pat Brendon’s shoulder.

“You’re a natural at this,” he said, hand running down Brendon’s side a little. Brendon felt something go inside his pocket. “I won’t tell Pete, but you gotta know this is a bad idea. I’ve already hitter the bottom. You’re young and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, this fuck up aside. You don’t need these friends, Brendon. You’ve already got what you need.”

Bob was gone before Brendon could tell him not to order Brendon around.

He looked in his pocket and realized he made three hundred dollars.

. . .

Sarah was in his lap, straddling his waist, kissing him like she could only breathe the air she took from Brendon’s lungs. It was comfortable, in the sense that Brendon was cold and her body was warm. Her lips were dry and chapped in an tight way that tugged at Brendon’s lips whenever she moved, and spit didn’t help. Her tongue was a foreign, squiggly object in his mouth that didn’t bring him much pleasure. All she was was wet DNA and muscle and skin and they’d been at this for ten minutes, like she was trying to get Brendon to do something, until—

Oh.

Her hand was down the front of his pants. She was groping his cock, literally just holding the shaft like she owned the damn thing. Brendon gasped and pulled away from the kissing, staring down at where her hand disappeared into his pants, knowing that she didn’t belong there. Except she did, didn’t she? Because she was a girl.

Brendon looked away, inwardly tormented. He knew he should like this, knew he should be okay with her hand touching him like this. He was in her room, the one she shared with Dallon and Breezy, but her roommates were otherwise elsewhere, and Sarah had started kissing him, saying that she was proud of him, wanted to reward him for doing so well with selling to three people, and Brendon hadn’t been sure what she’d meant, but now he was certain. God, he really hoped she didn’t want much more from him.

There was a fumbling in his pants that had to do more with the fact that Brendon was hunched over a tiny bit like he was trying to keep her out of there. Brendon forced himself to sit back and relax and let her unzip the front of his pants. The pants were pushed down after Brendon lifted his hips (because she tapped his hip, which meant he was meant to do something, right?), and Sarah smiled against his lips before fishing his cock from the confines of his boxers, and everything felt really cold and uncomfortable in that moment. 

“Have you ever gotten a blowjob before?” Sarah asked him, and jesus christ, this was not going where Brendon had expected it to go. And see, Brendon had had sex before, he’d fucked a girl, and it had been quick and dirty and not that great, but he’d never been blow by anyone before and had only really seen it in porn. All of his friends back home in New York had been a little too Mormon to know much about the raunchier side of the opposite sex. Most of them had faked the feeling of a car with sponges in a cup, and one of Brendon’s friends had gotten their older brother to buy them a fleshlight, but that was the extent of their experience. Brendon had been a god for the three weeks that had expanded between Brendon losing his virginity and running away/being disowned/kicked out. So Brendon had never been blown.

He shook his head, feeling almost dumb for admitting to his inexperience. Sarah’s reaction didn’t help.

“Seriously?” she asked with a snort. “Are you kidding? All dudes have been blown, cause all girls have blown a guy. _Please tell me you’re not a virgin._ ”

Brendon blinked owlishly and shook his head, hoping she didn’t think he was lying. “I’m not a virgin. H-her name was Keltie, and it was behind the school after her swim practice. She said she had a crush on me a-and wanted me to be her first, so I pushed her swimsuit to the side and fucked her a-and she smiled at me and said thanks.”

Sarah snorted. “That was her story?”

Brendon nodded.

“She was lying to get laid. That virgin story is bullshit, and no virgin girl wants her first time to be behind a school in a swimsuit. Especially if it’s a school swimsuit, one of those ugly one pieces? She wasn’t a virgin, Brendon.”

His heart dropped into his stomach when he realized he’d given his first time to a liar.

“Awh, don’t be sad,” Sarah cooed, reaching down to stroke Brendon’s cock, like that would somehow make him feel better. “Let me blow you. It’ll help you feel a lot better, okay? Better than that dirty, swimsuit whore could ever make you feel.”

Brendon just nodded again, feeling shellshocked and used. He knew it was probably backhanded and wrong, because he’d fucked her then with half his motive being getting laid, but it made him feel cheap to be so easy that he couldn’t see through a petty lie. He wished he could take it all back, and save him first time for something that would have been a hell of a lot more special, and less like manipulation.

“If you keep thinking about her instead of me, you’ll never be able to get it up.” Sarah winked at him when they made eye contact, and Brendon felt a little more sick, but he nodded for a third time.

“Do it,” he croaked, wetting his lips and just barely keeping himself form cringing when he tasted Sarah. Sarah slid out of his lap and went down on her knees in front of him, smiling like she was something Brendon should look at with awe, but all Brendon could see was Keltie, looking at Brendon like he was someone she could use. Then again, girls didn’t get anything from blowjobs, right? Maybe she was doing this for him.

The second Sarah’s lips touch his cock, it felt… off. She felt like too much, just a bit too much lip or softness or something. Brendon was glad she wasn’t wearing lipgloss, otherwise his dick would feel slimy and unpleasant, and he’d spend extra long in the shower, carefully scrubbing at that part of himself just to make the sensation go away.

Sarah hummed and blew a puff of air onto his cock, which made him flinch and furrow his brow. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not, but he definitely wasn’t hard yet. Yeah, there was a bit of telltale stiffness, but that only came from the fact that someone was touching his dick. He wasn’t actually interested, and Sarah looked like it was beginning to annoy her just the tiniest bit. She started pumping, a quick up and down that moved the skin harshly, and Brendon wanted to ask her to get some lotion, or at least lick her hand, but wouldn’t that be rude? Her nails scraped just a bit too close to the sensitive organ for comfort, and Brendon just shut his eyes, trying to picture something or someone that would make this a little bit easier.

He dipped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to think of something that would help. He pictured a pretty young girl, with short hair and golden eyes who smiled at him and touched his chest and told him he was special. She held his face and kissed him like she wanted him to enjoy it, not enjoy him. He imaged her hand was cool and calloused and careful, holding him like she knew what she was doing, and the lips that touched his cock were gentle and forgiving, like she knew he’d never done this and wanted to be careful and not startle him. He pretended that she wanted him, not something from him. He knew Sarah wasn’t using him, because how does a girl get off from a blowjob? He just didn’t like the look in Sarah’s eyes. It was too impersonal, too calculative, like she was trying to find something to gain.

Brendon went back to picturing the girl, but shuddered when he noticed she didn’t actually look all that much like a girl.

Brendon was torn.

He knew, god forgive him, that thinking about Ryan would work. He knew that picturing Ryan down there, on his knees, lips on Brendon’s cock, would be the surefire way to keep Brendon’s body interested, and maybe even make this a truly pleasurable experience. He knew that if he just pretended Ryan was the one making him feel like this, he’d barely last. 

But he knew that letting himself feel pleasure associated with Ryan was the first step down into a very scary, and sinful place. He couldn’t picture a man touching him like that, it just wasn’t right! The very idea had robbed him of his home, his safety, his entire family. He wasn’t sure if he had much more to lose, but he couldn’t take that risk, could he? What if fantasizing about Ryan during this opened a flood gate of emotions and desires Brendon wouldn’t be able to control? What if he could never face Ryan? What if he started having legitimate dreams that consumed him, consumed his mind and body and made him desperate for something so fucking wrong that he deserved to be homeless again?

But he knew that if he didn’t get it up, and keep it that way, Sarah would be mad, very mad. He couldn’t stand to see disappointment in her eyes, and he knew that she would never let it go. Brendon knew a healthy teenage boy like him would be revving to go for a blowjob from a hot girl like Sara, and he’d have to be crazy or stupid or gay to not enjoy it. But Brendon wasn’t any of those. He knew she’d tell Dallon and Breezy, and then Halsey and Kenny and Haley would find out, and Brendon would be a laughing stock and a f-fag.

He didn’t like that word. He didn’t like what it meant about Patrick and Pete.

Fuck, they were probably at home right now, worried about him.

That settled it. The sooner Brendon got blown, the sooner he’d be able to get back to the apartment and make sure Patrick and Pete were okay. And the only way that this would be over quickly was if he thought about Ryan. It wasn’t cheating on Sarah. He was doing this for her to feel better.

“Th-that feels nice,” Brendon said, just to get things going. He let his eyes drift shut again and pretended he could feel Ryan’s curls when he reached out and haltingly ran his fingers through Sarah’s hair, like he’d seen in porn. He thought that girls would appreciate the sort of thankful gesture, maybe take comfort in it? But Sarah reached up and pushed Brendon’s hands from her hair, making them settled uselessly at Brendon’s sides. Oh well. Her hair was too long to be Ryan’s, anyways, and definitely not soft enough. 

Sarah’s mouth was hot and wet and it was okay, but every time her teeth grazed just a bit too close, Brendon would be torn from the mildly pleasant sensations and tense, scared of the pain. He grit his teeth and kept his eyes shut and thought, “ _Ryan, Ryan Ryan_ ,” until his mind couldn’t think of anything else, even if it wanted to. He was completely consumed with Ryan, thoughts so deep that he barely felt what Sarah was doing, until the thoughts progressed and entwined everything together.

Before long, Brendon was gasping, head lilted back, thighs trembled, biting his tongue to keep from saying Ryan’s name aloud using the only shred of consciousness he had left. There was this weird ship of Sarah’s tongue, an unpleasant roll of her entire throat, but the Ryan in Brendon’s mind was peering up at him with those big eyes from under his lashes, and Brendon was gone without any sort of actual control. He shuddered and finally opened his eyes as the aftershocks wracked his body, looking down at Sarah with a small smile. It felt cheap to thank her verbally, and he remembered reading something on the internet about compensation or fair trade and not shying away from the act itself, so Brendon ducked down, meaning to kiss Sarah, regardless of what had been in her mouth.

But Sarah put a finger to his lips and then spit the mess into her hand, standing and going to wash her hand in the sink. Brendon watched her go, a coldness seeping into his bones. Again, he felt used. But Sarah didn’t get anything from that, so how could that be?

Brendon got his pants back up and went home not five minutes later after Sarah disappeared into the shower after saying she was going on and Brendon could stay or leave or do whatever. It was obvious, though, that he wasn’t invited. As he walked home, he wished he had on his lavender jacket for the first time in over a month.

. . .

“Some girls use it as a power thing,” Pete told Brendon after putting the officially mute Patrick to bed. He looked ragged and dried out, like an overused rag or something equally dismal. Brendon had come home and told Pete what had happened, leaving out the details of using Ryan, but detailing the feelings of being exploited.

“The person below has a lot of control when they’re getting you off like that,” Pete continued to explain. He had a hand around Brendon’s shoulders, and the comfort was greatly appreciated. “They can do basically everything when they have you exposed like that. The only more revealing way you could be is during full blown sex, and she’s on top. A lot of girls and guys suck guys off to show that they have the power over you. Because in that moment, they control you. They control your body and your reactions, your voice, your breathe, your thoughts. They chose whether or not you get relief, and it can be thrilling for a lot of people. But when it’s too obvious, it can be… harrowing. For the other person.”

Brendon was just happy to know that Sarah, at the least, hadn’t be in control of Brendon’s mind. She would never be able to take that from him. Not as long as he had thoughts of Ryan in his head.

“How’s Patrick?” Brendon asked, wanting to be off this topic before he said something that would betray himself.

Pete looked away.

Brendon bit his lip. “He, he’s gonna make it, Pete. And so are you.”

“Josh and Tyler came by with this rotisserie chicken they bought,” Pete told him. “It’s dinner. Want any? It’s late, I know,” and when Pete looked to the clock, he saw that it was nearly midnight. “But you’re a growing boy, and you’re not on the streets. You have no excuse to not be eating. Ryan would kill me if he saw how skinny you’re getting again.”

Brendon tensed at the sound of Ryan’s name, and looked to the kitchen. “Why don’t you want to talk about Patrick?”

Pete shrugged. Then paused. Then took a deep breath, and said, “you seem too busy.”

Brendon felt like he’d stabbed himself through the stomach, knowing that the knife was his own, and the guilt was a solid lump in his throat, threatening to choke him. It was a lot to deal with at once, so Brendon ran a hand through his hair, rested a hand on his hip, and looked at the floor, at his shoes, ragged and worn. The snow and sludge tore the canvas apart quickly.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “I just… don’t handle. This. Well.” His words were halted and broken, because he knew, with each word he said, that it was the wrong thing to say in the first place. He wasn’t good with death. When his grandmother had died, he hadn’t cried. He hadn’t really been able to. It had been hard to feel sadness when all he could feel was emptiness. Brendon didn’t know how to handle Patrick’s terminal cancer because all he could see was someone slowly turning into a corpse and trying to fight it. It was hopeless. Brendon wasn’t good with hopelessness. 

“Kid,” Pete sighed, causing Brendon to look up. “I don’t need you to do a god damn thing but make sure I don’t crash and fall apart on my own. If I collapse under the weight of whatever, I need to know I won’t be lying in the middle of nowhere until someone realizes I haven’t called in sick to work in a while, and decide to drop by. Like when people die and their cats eat them, Brendon. Don’t let the cats eat me.”

“Oh my god,” Brendon choked, finding that to be the most morbid analogy he'd ever heard. “I, I won’t let the cats eat you, Pete. Or Patrick. I’m so sorry.”

Pete reached out to tousle Brendon’s hair, and Brendon finally relaxed, moving forward and leaning into Pete’s chest. “I’m just trying to make myself friends that will still be there when I’m an adult,” He told Pete, words muffled by the older man’s shirt. “I just don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to lose a family and have no one else to go to.”

“Why’d your parents kick you out, B? Why’d you run away?”

Brendon shuddered and whimpered, feeling like he was going to start crying. “I-I don’t know if I should talk about it.” Talking about it made it real. Once the words were in the air, he’d never be able to take it back. The reality would become painful and permanent.

“I know you feel like Patrick and I aren’t actually, like, parental figures or anything, but we love you, okay? We love you like parents. And we want you to trust us and come to us for help and comfort and all that mushy jazz. We know we can do it, know we can be that for you, because we’ve been that for someone else. But you’re not a replacement or a second attempt— you’re Brendon fucking Urie, an amazing kid who was dealt a horrible hand and did his best to survive in the middle of a cold, cruel world. You’re a strong kid and someone that I want to stick around in my life, long after you’ve become a legal adult or whatever that bullshit title means. Stay with us, okay? Even if you don’t live with us. Stay with us.”

Brendon had started crying through the middle of it.

“I-I tried to come out to m-my parents, but they hated me,” he sobbed, hiding in Pete’s chest. He was warm and solid and a way to hide from fucking everything. “I didn’t want to leave, but they d-didn’t want me. They didn’t w-w-want me anymore.”

Pete wrapped him up in a hug. “Well, I want you. So don’t think about them. You have a home here. A real one.”

Brendon nodded and stained Pete’s shirt with his regret for the next hour.


	6. We’re Living in an Eyes Wide Shut World with Broken Glass on the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so the shoe is dropping in slow motion and cars don't kill people. drivers do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> car crash in this one while being held at gunpoint. if that bothers you, stop reading where Brendon's on the curb waiting to sell. i can fill you in if you need it.
> 
> jesus i'm so sorry if there are too many typos like really sorry i'm sorry

It was hard to face Ryan after what he’d pictured with Sarah. It was one thing to talk to Sarah and hang around her, knowing what she’d done for him, and also knowing what he’d thought about instead, but it was another thing entirely to acknowledge that he’d pictured Ryan’s lips and hands and eyes while getting blown by a girl, then seeing those lips and hands and eyes in person.

Brendon was mostly filled with shame and couldn’t meet Ryan’s eyes. Not after picturing him with those thin lips around his cock, eyes peering up at him, bright and sensual. Ryan and tried to hug him at one point, but Brendon had taken a purposeful step back to avoid him and his touch completely. He wished he’d missed the look of confused hurt on Ryan’s face, but there was no helping it. Brendon had done something terribly wrong and had used Ryan’s image for something sinful. He had no excuse. He deserved this guilt.

But Ryan didn’t deserve the way Brendon was treating him.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon told him, head ducked, tone subdued. “I-I can’t tell you what I did, but if you knew, you’d be so angry.”

“You don’t know that,” Ryan mumbled, also not looking up. They were like two kids who wouldn’t own up and talk about what was bothering them both, but knowing that they couldn't be the one to bring it up. Brendon definitely wasn’t going to tell Ryan what he’d done out of fear of upsetting him, but Ryan lived in a world where Brendon probably couldn’t do anything as wrong as what he’d done, so he was insistent on saying that Brendon wouldn’t ever be able to upset him. It was a cycle that Brendon hated and wanted nothing more than to end, but that would mean Ryan would hate him. He couldn’t handle that.

“I-I do know,” he told Ryan softly. “Which is why I can’t tell you. C-cause then you’ll get mad and never talk to me again, and that’s the last thing I want, Ryan. I know I can be a dick and act like I don’t care and stuff, and maybe sometimes you think I wish you were gone, but none of that is true.” He shut his eyes to keep from crying. He was too worn out to be handling emotions like this. “I-I see you as a friend, Ryan, a really, really good friend. I need you in my life. I don’t want you gone. I can barely do this by myself. You, you make me feel better. You keep me safe and sane and I-I don’t want you to leave me. I can’t have you leave me.”

Ryan didn’t respond, but he did move forward and put an arm around Brendon, pulling him into his side. “Whatever you did,” he murmured quietly, so only Brendon could hear. “It wasn’t enough to make me hate you. It will never be enough to make me hate you. I’ll always be here, okay? Even if you’re the one to leave. I’ll be here if you ever come back.”

Brendon sniffled and nodded dumbly, wiping his eyes. He knew he didn’t deserve people like Ryan and Pete. And he knew he’d only hurt them again, because he was friends with the wrong people, but enjoyed their company too much to leave. And wasn’t he just the fucking worst.

. . .

“So, Sarah gave you a hummer?” Dallon asked Brendon next time he saw him. Brendon tensed, then nodded. Both the girls were out, picking up food for dinner because it had been their turn. Brendon and Dallon had entered an odd sort of friendship, were Dallon would say things to antagonize Brendon, but then add other comments that suggested he was really looking out for Brendon, and Brendon would just go along with it and hope Dallon wouldn’t actively try to hurt him, outright. 

“I’ve heard she’s okay at those,”Dallon said with a dismissive shrug. “But nothing special.”

“It was fine,” Brendon defended, even though he didn’t have much experience to go on, and he hadn’t enjoyed her actions in the slightest. It just felt wrong to throw Sarah under the bus after what she’d done, even if it had been done with selfish intent. 

“Dude, please,” he snorted. “I know, okay? She uses too much teeth, and it’s always like she’s looking to get you. You don’t gotta lie about it or whatever.”

“You’re talking about it like you know,” Brendon challenged, expecting Dallon to back down.

“Cause I have,” Dallon told him, which, okay, what?

Brendon blinked owlishly at him. “You… She’s given you a blowjob?”

Dallon nodded. “Yeah, and it was kinda shitty. Like, I could do way better.”

Brendon felt like the floor had fallen out from under him. “You’ve blown someone before?” he asked with a squeak.

Dallon smirked at him. “You’re so vanilla.”

Brendon opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it again, looking to the kitchen and trying to figure out how he ended up here, with friends like these.

Dallon watched him for a moment. “You’re nervous,” he observed with a softer tone. “You don’t have to be. I’m the same guy I was before, and so are you.”

“I’m fine,” Brendon lied.

“Except you’re not,” Dallon sighed. “Look, Brendon, I saw the way you were looking at me. I know you kissed Sarah, but let’s be real— you’re not into girls. Not like you think you do. And I know that, Breezy knows that, and Sarah knows that. We’re just waiting for you to stop bullshitting us and yourself. But the thing is… I’m getting impatient.”

Brendon looked to him with an alarmed expression as Dallon walked towards him with a sway to his steps. He tried to back up, but was met with the sofa to his butt. He couldn’t really move to the left or right because Dallon was already too close. He was trapped.

“You know, you’re actually kinda cute,” Dallon murmured, reaching out and holding Brendon’s face with one hand. Brendon felt the breath leave his lungs like a punch in the gut, and he wanted to run. “I mean, I can see the appeal,” Dallon murmured, standing too close to Brendon, their toes almost touching at this point. “Sarah… she has pretty good taste.” Dallon leered. “Wouldn’t mind getting a taste of you myself.” Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to Brendon, quickly becoming demanding and controlling the kiss. Dallon pressed Brendon against the sofa, pinning him to the furniture and putting his other hand on Brendon’s hip. He devoured Brendon’s mouth, prying Brendon’s mouth open and forcing his tongue inside.

Brendon put a hand to Dallon’s chest to push him away, get him away, let him fucking breathe, but he faltered, his palm resting on on Dallon’s flat, firm chest. He liked it. He liked the lack of breasts and curves, from what he could feel. Brendon’s face became flushed with desire.

Dallon reached down and grabbed Brendon’s thighs, lifting him up and dropping him onto the couch. He then climbed the edge and crawled on top of Brendon, straddling his waist and grinning down at him like the devil. Brendon felt his skin crawl and his chest tighten, and he wondered if that was just how his body translated the feeling of arousal. It would suck is his arousal felt akin to fear.

“You really are a fucking fag,” Dallon chuckled, reaching down to harshly grope Brendon through his jeans. Brendon gasped in physical and emotional shock, pulling away from he kiss to stare down at where Dallon’s hand was touching him. Dallon undid the zipper in his jeans and then tugged down the jeans and Brendon’s underwear, exposing him to the cool air. Brendon flinched and tore his eyes away from his own body, looking up at Dallon with wide, beseeching eyes, though he didn’t want to admit what he was asking for. Dallon’s hands felt so much better on him, so much more assured and confident, in the sense that Dallon knew what felt good and knew how to make it feel better. But the look in Dallon’s eyes were cold, so he tore his gaze from Dallon’s face and stared at the other guy’s chest instead.

Dallon touched him not unlike Sarah, like he was trying to get something out of this, though it was a lot more obvious what was expected of Brendon after this. Dallon would get him off, then Brendon would get Dallon off, because it was only polite. Brendon was sure that he should’ve offered to return the favor to Sarah, but that hadn’t happened. The return favor had been lost in the shame of what had been done. 

Brendon gasped, suddenly pulled from his thoughts by a twist of Dallon’s hand, and a thumb pressing into the slit of his cock. Brendon whimpered and squirmed a bit, trying to angle his hip upwards, because it felt so undeniably good that he was ashamed. Dallon was looking at him like he was just another face that he was trying to get off in the quickest way. Brendon felt more like a conquest than anything else.

So he shut his eyes again and saw Ryan.

Sweet, kind, careful, smart Ryan, hovering over him and kissing his neck as he touched. Ryan would tell him gentle things, maybe talk him through these foreign waters, actually acknowledge that Brendon wasn’t good at any of this. Brendon trembled as he imagined Ryan exploring his body, playing with his pleasure and pulling Brendon apart slowly, unlike what Dallon was doing. Dallon’s grip was tight and too fast, and Brendon just wanted this over with. He repeated Ryan’s name over and over in his head, squeezing tightly with ever muscle in his body, picturing Ryan, explosive and real behind his eyelids, and then bit his lip to stifle the cry when he came.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were screaming,” Dallon observed, cleaning his cum-stained hand on the sofa. Brendon gaped up at him, panting for breath, not feeling any lingering thrums of pleasure, but still feeling pretty good all the same. “Sorry,” he breathed.

Dallon shrugged and thee sat back. He watched Brendon expectantly. “Well? Gonna do something?”

Brendon bit his lip, anxiety obvious in his expression, before tucking himself back into his pants, then leaning forward and crawling to settle between Dallon’s spread legs. “W-what do you want?” he asked nervously.

Dallon snorted. “Well, for you to stop acting like a fucking cherry, to start.” Brendon winced and ducked his head, nodding. “Seriously, Brendon, it’s a dick. It’s not hard. Well, really, it is hard. It is very fucking hard. But it’s not difficult to figure out. Just use your hand or mouth or whatever. It’s easy, really. Like riding a new bike.”

Brendon stared down at the bulge in the front of Dallon’s pants and felt a lace of fear run through him. Blessedly, his phone rang. Brendon darted back and quickly snatched up the advice, seeing a familiar number flashing on the caller ID. It wasn’t connected to a contact, but Brendon knew the number. It was one of his regular buyers. The call ended after three rings, meaning that they wanted to get hooked up. Brendon quickly pocketed his phone and sent Dallon an apologetic expression, hoping he didn’t show how relieved he was.

Brendon toed on his shoes and left the apartment without another word to Dallon, thanking whatever god was up there that he’d done this for Brendon.

. . .

Brendon shuffled his feet to stay warm as he waited by the curb. He’d gotten a text soon after the aborted phone call, saying that the man would show up in his Subaru and that he wanted to do the transaction in there, because it was, and Brendon quoted, “cold as fucking balls.” Brendon really did agree, so he was eager to get into the car and enjoy the standard heater everyone had when you lived in Chicago. His shoes were still shitty, and he wondered if he should brave asking Pete for new, more appropriate ones, especially if he was going to really continue selling drugs like this. Have good footwear was very important.

Brendon was stomping his feet at this point, and puffing air into his hands, trying to warm up. February was coming to a close, but winter wasn’t letting up. It was mildly disconcerting, though the rest of the city carried on like it was normal. Brendon wasn’t a local, so he had no idea if winters normally lasted this long. He just knew he was ready to feel the sun again.

A Subaru pulled up, colored white and covered with mud, and Brendon recognized the customer in the driver’s seat. He grinned, waved, then rounded the vehicle to climb into the driver’s seat. He remembered Sarah telling him that going inside someone else’s car was a bad idea, but Brendon knew this man, and trusted him. He’d already sold to him twice before. He didn’t think anything was going to happen.

“Hi there!” Brendon chirped, not saying the man’s name because he didn’t know his name. Brendon didn’t know any of his customer’s names, and they didn’t know his. It was apparently smarter that way. “The usual? You know the deal, of course you do, you well seasoned traveller. We can just do this really quick so you can get back to your busy life, and…” Brendon paused as the car started to move forward. “… Where are we going?” He automatically clipped the seatbelt into place, wondering if this was part of the deal.

The man didn’t answer. Brendon only just realized that his jaw was tight and his mouth set in a grim line. His entire body was tense, especially his shoulders, and then Brendon looked down and saw the gun in his lap that was pointed at Brendon. As if on cue, the car doors locked.

“Please don't kill me,” Brendon whispered, rigid with the fear that moving an inch would get him shot.

“I need all of it,” the man said in a gruff voice, staring at the road, the gun still trained on Brendon with an unwavering hand. “Everything you have on you. I need you to give all of it to me. No money. No exchange.” He glanced from the road to look to Brendon with a deadly gaze. “Do you get that? Do you understand? I’m fucking robbing you. And you’re not going to tell anyone, because then I’ll go to the cops. The deal the strike with me to get you will get me out of jail time. You’ll take the heat. And your supplier. You get that, right? Give me everything you have or I’ll fucking end you.”

“Okay,” Brendon breathed, nodding. “Okay. Y-yeah, okay, I-I’ll give you everything I have.” Which wasn’t much, and that was bad for Brendon. God, he didn’t want to die, especially when he was so young, and over drugs, of all things! Brendon quickly emptied his pockets of the five packets he had of cocaine. “That’s it,” he said, hands in the air after turning his pockets inside out to prove he was telling the truth. Brendon’s hands were shaking, and he hoped that visible weakness wouldn’t get him in trouble. They were driving past a park now, and it was very dark, very cold, and the city as very empty here. 

“What?” The hand on the gun tightened. “That’s it? That’s fucking it?!”

Brendon whimpered in absolute terror for his life. “I don’t want to die,” he blurted out. “I-I have to tell someone something important. I have tell Ryan what I need from him, I h-h-have to help Patrick get better and make sure Pete’s okay, a-and I have to—”

“I don’t fucking care what you gotta do!” the man shouted, waving his gun at Brendon. “You fucking piece of shit, you’re trying ti swindle me out of the god damn dru—“

The car hit ice, then a curb, then a fire hydrant, and Brendon shut his eyes, fully expecting to die as the car dropped onto its side, then it’s top, then it’s side again and again and again. The car rolled into the park, hitting a tree hard. Brendon didn’t even tense up to defend himself, going limp and letting it happen. There was a horrible screaming sound, and Brendon wasn’t sure if it came from him or the man with the gun or the car itself. A crunch followed, loud and harrowing, and Brendon prayed that those weren’t his bones breaking.

He was shocked when he could open his eyes after the car stilled. How was he awake? How was he even alive? 

Brendon unclipped the seatbelt and dropped onto ceiling of the car, looking around with wide eyes. He could hear chatter, or maybe that was the trolling in his ears. Maybe that was his heartbeat. Maybe that was his life that was still playing in his subconscious. The car was a mess and there was red where on the window. He let out a noise of pain, though he wasn’t sure what actually hurt. He wasn’t sure if anything hurt at all. Brendon looked around, the tried to open the door of the car, wiggling the handle insistently. It didn’t budge, so he started to kick the window, instinct settling in.

Brendon crawled out of the car after kicking open the car window glass. There were shards in his socks, but Brendon didn’t care. He crawled out of the car and looked around in a daze. Then he stood and started walking. He hadn’t bothered to look if the other guy was okay. He didn’t care. The gun and the drugs were in the car and would get him arrested, hopefully. 

Brendon kept walking, blinking as something got in his eye. He brought his hand up to wipe whatever it was away, then blinked at the blood that collected on his fingertips when he pulled the hand away. 

Then he started crying.

He cried big, ugly, quiet tears as he walked through the city, staring at the lights like he couldn’t comprehend what they meant. He knew, deep down, that lights meant life. There were always people with the light, living and laughing and loving and existing peacefully, together, in warmth and safety.

Brendon didn’t have any of that right now. And it was entirely his fault.

Brendon wiped his eyes and nearly tripped over the curb. A horn blared at him, but he kept going, deciding that if he got hit by a car and died that way, it would be entirely too ironic to pass up. Brendon looked at the lights again, and wanted, more than anything, to be inside, out of the cold and broken blood that was making everything appear red. He stumbled again and dropped to the concrete, bleeding and crying and shaking like a small child. He looked up at the bright building in front of him, towering so far above, and wished the wind would knock it over and crush Brendon like a bug.

“Brendon?”

Brendon’s head snapped to the left, and he regretted the movement when his head swam. His entire body swayed dangerously, and he felt like he was going to pass out. His head hurt, and the world was far too red to be safe. The air was so cold that it felt like dying. 

“Brendon, oh my god,” Ryan said as he rushed forward, dropping to the ground beside Brendon. Brendon wondered if he was getting a serious sense of déjà vu from this. After all, it wasn’t the first time Ryan had saved Brendon from the cold. 

Brendon looked up to Ryan, with that earnest expression, that inherent and intrinsic need to help, and felt his heart do something painful and scary. He wanted to forget everything he’d ever done to abuse Ryan’s face and kindness and generosity and ability to care.Thinking about Ryan while getting jacked off by some sordid man in a sordid place with sordid intentions that made Brendon feel like original sin came from him and his actions, and the horrible thoughts he had in his head.

“It hurts,” Brendon slurred, only just starting to realize that he was in really bad shape. 

“What happened?” Ryan asked urgently.

Brendon blinked sluggishly and couldn’t answer. What had happened? “Tired,” he said instead. “And… it hurts.”

Ryan looked really, really scared.

“Ryan?” Brendon said his name like it was something that could save him, like the name of a saint or an angel or a medication that would save his life. Save Patrick’s life. Brendon wished he could save Patrick’s life. It would make things so much easier, for everyone. Then Brendon could sell drugs and make friends with bad people without feeling guilt for not being there when he was needed. “Ryan, I-I think I’m a bad person.” Brendon didn’t think that, though. He knew it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Brendon knew that he was a bad person. He knew that everyone in his life deserved better. His parents, his siblings, his old classmates, Pete, Patrick, Ryan, Mikey, everyone, fucking everyone deserved better than Brendon.

Except Sarah. And Dallon and Jeremy and them. They were bad people, too. They were right down in the depths with Brendon. He and his friends deserved to have their teeth fall out and their lives succumb to addiction and bad decisions. Brendon knew that they deserved whatever was coming to them. He just wished he didn’t have to experience it.

“I’m so bad,” Brendon whispered as his skull bled. “I wish I was better. For you.” He looked to Ryan and placed three fingertips on Ryan’s chest. “For you.”

“You have a concussion,” Ryan choked out with a panicked edge. “Get up. Get up!” Ryan was pulling Brendon up by his arm, like he was trying to make Brendon go somewhere. Hell, he probably was. Brendon’s head was throbbing too harshly for him to really understand much, but he knew that Ryan was worried. “Brendon, I need you to stand,” Ryan continued. “I, I can’t take you to the hospital. They could be looking for you. But, I, I know how to treat these things, okay? I’m gonna take you home and dress the wound and then you’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Ryan kept repeating that like he needed to reassure himself of what he hoped to be the truth. Brendon leaned against him and finally, finally breathed easy, because Ryan was warm.

“Feel like I’m frozen,” Brendon mumbled. “Take me somewhere warm?” Then, he giggled, unable to deny himself this flirtatious comment. “Take me to your bed, Ryan. You’re warm, right? And so are blankets.” He sighed softly and shut his eyes. “Red and cold… Red and cold.”

He wondered if he was dying again,

“I miss my lavender jacket,” Brendon whispered, before everything went dark.

. . .

Brendon woke up in Ryan’s bed, and wished he wasn’t so stupid.

_It smelled so good. ___

__And his mind was consumed with memories of picturing Ryan on his knees, lips around his cock, lips on his skin, his mouth, his everywhere. Brendon had orgasmed, twice, thinking about Ryan, thinking about what he wanted Ryan to do to him, what he wanted to see Ryan do, but he’d never though about what he wanted to do to Ryan._ _

__God, the temptation was too great. It smelled so amazingly like Ryan, like the feeling offing saved from the brink of death timed time again. That was what Ryan meant, after all. Ryan had saved his life twice, and one more time would make it a pattern. Maybe Ryan was his guardian angel? That would make Brendon’s fantasies of Ryan all the more damnable. Brendon would be the most evil creature on earth, themes disgusting thing to ever exist. If Ryan were an angel, Brendon would be the devil, trying to bring the angel down and use him, mark him, taint him with his own evil._ _

__Brendon needed therapy, he knew that. He knew he wasn't actually the devil, right? He couldn’t be the devil. He was just living in sin. A sin that smelled so very good and had saved his life twice._ _

__Brendon whimpered, knowing that he wasn’t strong enough to defy the animalistic needs inside of him, and turned over so he was lying face down on the mattress. Dallon had been a somewhat unwelcome turn of events, but it had awoken a bravery inside Brendon that he didn’t want to have. Having the courage to fantasize about the man who saved your life wasn’t something to brag about. Brendon was horribly ashamed of himself as he started to rock his hips down into the mattress, face shoved into Ryan’s pillow. But it felt good, right? And things that felt good couldn’t actually be that bad._ _

__He heard someone clear his throat, and froze._ _

__“I, uh… I can leave.”_ _

__Brendon’s stomach sunk as he recognized Ryan’s voice._ _

__“I just, I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. So I can ask you a few things. Pete is already on his way, Patrick’s too weak to get up, but Bilvy and Gabe are going to watch him, so it’s okay. He’s okay, I mean. I just, I need to know what happened. Your head isn’t too messed up, barely a concussion, and nothing’s broken, but you’ve got tons of scratches and bruises, a-and your clothes are torn.” Ryan paused, and Brendon finally turned his head to look to the man. He saw Ryan was sitting next to his dresser, gnawing on his lower lip. “What were you doing that got you so hurt, Brendon? Did you get in a fight? Did someone hurt you? Were you mugged?”_ _

__Brendon paused, trying to think of a good lie. He’d slowly started to get better at lying with the more he hung around Sarah and Dallon._ _

__“I, I got hit by a car,” he said. It wasn’t a blatant lie, either— more like an untruth. He had been hit by a car; he’d just been inside the car when he’d been knocked around by it. “I didn’t get the license plate. I didn’t mean for it to happen.” The fact that he’d been held at gunpoint was something that he was trying really hard to forget. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to sell drugs again. He wasn’t sure if he was even going to be able to face anyone, ever. Going outside seemed like a terrifying necessity that he wanted to avoid, more than anything. Brendon didn’t want to face anyone he didn’t know wouldn’t try to kill him, and he didn’t think that was too ridiculous to want. Most people didn’t even worry about getting stabbed when going outside. He probably should have worried about that ages ago, since living in Chicago. New York was dangerous, but it wasn’t the murder capitol of the US, either._ _

__“It was just a car,” he told Ryan softly. He didn’t like lying, but he was starting to understand that lying was sometimes preferable to hurting the person with the truth. “I hit the ground pretty hard. I’m fine, right? Like, I’m actually okay. You said I was okay.”_ _

__Ryan nodded, running a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah… you’re okay. You’re okay.” He sighed. “You’re okay.” It sounded like Ryan was repeating that for himself._ _

__“When’s Pete gonna be here?” Brendon asked, just to get the subject kinda off himself._ _

__“Soon, ish,” Ryan said.”… Were you gonna start humping my bed?”_ _

__Brendon almost bit through his own tongue with how forcefully his mouth snapped shut. He couldn’t turn to look at Ryan, of course not, that would just be so very inappropriate. Maybe Brendon could lie about this too? Yeah, he should lie, because Ryan would be better off not knowing the truth as to what Brendon was about to do in his bed, and he was especially better off not knowing who Brendon was going to think about._ _

__“I was bored,” Brendon said, instead of actually lying like he should have, god dammit. “I just, the bed’s comfy. And I’m warm and nothing hurts yet, and I totally have head trauma, right?” That would be preferable._ _

__“I don’t think you do,” Ryan said cautiously, like he was trying to figure out the puzzle Brendon was making. “Why were you trying to hump my bed? That’s a little weird, Brendon. I sleep in there.”_ _

__Brendon peeked out from the pillow, just enough to see that Ryan was blushing faintly. Brendon felt a thrill of something run through him that didn’t feel good for his moral standing in the world, but definitely felt good for the semi he’d been dealing with since waking up, smelling like Ryan._ _

__God, Brendon was a fucking sinner, and he was starting to get used to the fact._ _

__That couldn’t be good._ _

__“I’m sorry,” he said softly, not really meaning it, but meaning it at the same time. He didn’t mean it because Ryan was hot and he was starting to grow accustom to the idea that he was going to find Ryan sexually attractive. And he meant it, because he regretted being so stupid about when and where and getting caught. And he also felt kinda bad for using Ryan’s bed without asking permission. That was just a little silly to regret, but Brendon also didn’t care very much. He kinda just loved how everything smelled like Ryan, and how Ryan was in the same room as him._ _

__“I’m glad you’re not hurt too badly,” Ryan said with a sigh, apparently a little done with that conversation too. “It could have been much worse, you know. But nothing is broken,and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, from what I can see. Though I’d definitely recommend calling 9-1-1- next time. Or, at least, stay put and call someone else for help. You could have hurt yourself even more.”  
Brendon was about to argue when Pete rushed into the room, wide eyed and out of breath. He saw Brendon and let out this noise of relief, before launching himself onto the bed and Brendon, hugging him tight to his chest._ _

__“You big fucking, beautiful idiot,” Pete choked out, sounding like he was crying. He was holding Brendon tightly, so tightly that Brendon could feel his body shake as he cried. Brendon wasn’t sure why Pete was crying at all, but he felt guilt for hurting Pete like this on top of everything else the man was going through._ _

__“God, if you ever do this to me again…”_ _

__Brendon eventually hugged Pete back, managing a smile. “I’m sorry. But, b-but Ryan! He took really good care of me! He saved my life again— isn’t that weird?” He laughed nervously, trying to play this whole thing off, not wanting Pete to stay worried for too long. He had enough stress as it was. “He just keeps saving me. It’s kinda nice, like proof that angels are real.”_ _

__“I’m not an angel,” Ryan snorted, though he was smiling. “If anything, I’m just like you.”_ _

__“You say that all the time,” Brendon huffed. “What does it even mean? You and Pete. And Mikey and others. They all say you and I are alike. Why?”_ _

__“Well, because I ran away from home, too,” Ryan said with a shrug. “I ran away from my home in Vegas. My mom left me and my dad, and my dad was drinking himself to death. Then he got some girlfriend with fake tits and no personality, and they spent my college fund on drugs and gambling, and then he…” Ryan cleared his throat. “My dad, uh, s-started… throwing fists. At me. Cursed me, said I wasn’t his son. So, I ran away. Hitchhiked my way to Chicago.”_ _

__“And you started working for Pete?” Brendon asked, curious. He’d never heard Ryan’s story, now that he thought about it._ _

__“No, no,” Ryan denied, smiling sadly. Pete was watching Ryan carefully, like he thought something was going to go wrong. “I, uh, I was on the streets. Just like you. I had to beg and go through the garbage and just…” He shrugged. “Survive. I had to survive.”_ _

__“How long were you out there?” Brendon asked softly._ _

__Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “… Two years?”_ _

__Brendon’s eyes widened._ _

__“I ran away when I was fourteen,” Ryan told him with a sigh. “I couldn’t handle that place, those people. They were truly horrible people, you know? They weren’t good people, they hurt everyone that got in their way, spent money like it was candy or something, and just… hated. They hated people, hated me, hated life and living and everything. The only thing they didn’t hate was each other and alcohol and drugs. They lived in this haze of horrible decisions and dumb ideas and complete neglect for human life beyond their own. They couldn’t breath past the drugs in their veins, and were just…” Ryan grimaced, arms crossed over his chest._ _

__“I couldn’t cope, so I left. I left and went to Chicago because I had a friend online who lived there. But they turned out to be some catfish bullshit, I’m still not sure what happened there. And so I was on the streets, fucking starving. You’ve seen me, B— I am way too skinny. Losing weight when you look like me is actually really skinny. So you can imagine how bad it was when I wasn’t getting much more than a few scraps a day.”_ _

__“Did you ever sell yourself?” Brendon asked suddenly. Pete’s eyes snapped to Brendon, something like horror. Brendon had never mentioned how he’d been willing to commit sexual favors in return for food or money for a short time. Brendon hadn’t gone through with it, but the fact that the idea had entered his head was enough to cause alarm._ _

__“I never sold myself, no,” Ryan said softly. At first, Brendon was thrown off and wracked with something close to remorse or guilt or something worse, but then, “but I thought about it. A lot.” Ryan looked down at his hands. “When the hunger became so bad that I couldn’t even sleep, I-I thought about putting my body out there for anyone to use. If it meant I would have food, I didn’t care.”_ _

__Brendon felt ruefully vindicated. At least he wasn’t the only one to sink so low._ _

__“How did Pete find you?” Brendon asked curiously._ _

__“Kinda like how I found you,” Ryan said. “I was in the streets. It wasn’t winter time, wasn't freezing cold, but I was so hungry…”_ _

__“You don’t have to tell this story,” Pete interrupted when Ryan’s story lulled to an unfinished end. “Ryan? This isn’t required or anything. You don’t have to keep talking. I picked you up— we can leave it at that.”_ _

__Ryan shook his head. He moved forward and sat next to Brendon on the bed. “I was starving. Too hungry to do much else but lie there and sleep forever, save occasional moments of lucidity where I could accomplish almost nothing. But sometimes, I could do a lot. And one day, I went to that bridge that goes over the river, the draw bridge?”_ _

__Brendon didn’t like where this was going._ _

__“If you go up top when the bridge is up, the impact will kill you, or at least fuck you up so bad that you’d drown. So when the draw bridge was up, I climbed it. I was gonna jump, I really was, you know? I-I was to hungry to keep going. You know how that feels.” And Brendon did. “You know wha hunger can make you do. What starvation does to your mind.” Ryan looked to Pete. “… But guess who was parked at the bridge, waiting to cross?”_ _

__Brendon looked to Pete, an immense feeling of relief rushing through him. But Pete just looked sad._ _

__“Pete climbed up the god damn thing,” Ryan remembered, grinning a bit. “Started talking to me like I was sad or something. But when he actually saw me— the way I looked like a skeleton— he got it. He saw that I was god damn emaciated and instead of trying to get me medicated, took me to a pizza parlor and bought me two deep dish pizza. I barely finished one, and got sick in the parlor bathroom from overeating. But Pete didn’t care that I wasted those forty bucks. Instead, he fucking took me home. Gave me the room that you’re in now. They were still in Fall Out Boy, still toured and made music and shit, so I was there when the cancer first hit.”_ _

__“Fuck, you were,” Pete mumbled. He was curling up on the bed, with Brendon against him. It reminded Brendon of when he was a little and his mom would cuddled up on the couch with him to watch Full House reruns that she knew every line to. He remembered his older sister, running into the living room, asking if she could borrow money to buy a lavender jacket with sequins she saw at the mall._ _

__“If Ryan hadn't been there when we first found out Patrick had cancer…” Pete trailed off, and Brendon wondered if Pete was shaking. It sure did feel like it; just a little bit. “Ending Fall Out Boy was one of the hardest decisions we’d ever made, but it was necessary. Patrick fought it the most out of all of us. Andy and Joe were better at accepting it. They just wanted to see Patrick get better. They didn’t want Patrick to lose his voice, because they knew how important it was.” Brendon felt Pete rest his chin on Brendon’s shoulder. “So I started Decay and gave them head recruitment positions. I felt bad taking away their livelihood, so I had to make it up to them somehow.”_ _

__“They’re your friends,” Ryan sighed. “They just wanted you guys to be okay. You still rake in so much money from the albums you’ve already put out. And maybe, one day, you’ll get the band back together.”_ _

__Brendon felt Pete shrug._ _

__“I was there for the first bout of cancer,” Ryan continued. “Patrick was so young. So fucking scared. And so was Pete. And you came so close to crashing, so close to giving up. Before the cancer started regressing, when Patrick and to go into the hospital, I found Pete in the bathroom with all these pills in his hands. So, I took a page from his book. Talked him down from the bridge and bought him pizza.”_ _

__Brendon felt Pete chuckle, and he smiled across the bed at Ryan._ _

__“I stayed with Pete and Patrick until Pete started Decay and needed a composer. He kinda always knew I had a knack for writing and composing, and offered me a job. I was so good that I started to make enough to get my own place. I met Spencer through work, same as I met Mikey. Mikey and I ended up getting a place together, which meant Gee lived with us too, and then Ray came in and made Mikey really happy, and they’re engaged, and then Frank started fucking Gee, and they’re totally in love, no matter what they say, and that… That’s how I got here. And why I’m like you.”_ _

__“Only the beginning was like me,” Brendon pointed out._ _

__Ryan shook his head. “All of it. The friends, family, and potential. You and I are a lot alike. You’ve got that voice, you know? I know we’ve never made a big deal of it before, but you’re good. And you’ve got this personality that people are drawn to. You get in trouble a lot, meaning you’re adventurous, because adventure and trouble go hand in hand.”_ _

__Ryan smirked a bit like he was remembering something, and Brendon’s heart fluttered to remind him of the terrible situation he was in concerning how Ryan was perfect and Brendon was weak._ _

__“You’re gonna do some really cool stuff,” Ryan told him confidently. “Just you wait.”_ _

__With Pete against his back, and Ryan in front of him, Brendon felt like he could fall asleep and wake up without second guessing where he belonged in the world. He’d never felt that before. Even with his family, and inwardly knowing he was gay, or something close, it had always been a wall between himself and his kin and supposed friends that he could never ignored. He knew he didn’t belong among those close minded and empty hearted people. He didn’t belong in an empty city full of hollow people that were thinking go themselves, and only that._ _

__Brendon felt like he belonged here, really. Not the city or the weather, but the people. Even if he was only among Pete and Ryan, he felt that if Mikey and Gerard and Patrick and Frank and Spencer, Joe, Andy, even Ray, if any of them walked in at this moment, Brendon would still be this relaxed and at peace. They were people he trusted. People he wasn’t afraid to be Brendon around. People he didn’t need to hide from or lie to (save a few dirty things that would turn the smiles into frowns). Brendon felt like he belonged here, and he was happy._ _

__He was happy because he had a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and people he could trust. A happy family with steady jobs and houses that weren’t too full, or loud, or cluttered, or broken. He was content and safe and warm, and his eyes weren’t searching for a touch of lavender._ _

__Brendon’s phone suddenly vibrated from the nightstand. Ryan said something or another about letting Brendon see, then handed it to him, smiling wide and innocently. The only thing that kept Brendon from moving across the bed and kissing Ryan was the warmth of Pete behind him._ _

__Brendon looked to his phone and absently read the message._ _

___‘jrmy is collecting need $$$ now or trouble’_ _ _

__Brendon wished he could forget the things he’d seen._ _

__Al of that happiness was gone._ _

__He melted into the bed, ignored Ryan’s and Pete’s concerned questions as to what was wrong, and wished he could jump off the drawbridge._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i estimate 2 more chapters


	7. Don’t Take Drugs if You’re Afraid of Flying and Falling and Fractures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry guys i lied this is the last chapter
> 
> it just got wrapped up so well here that i didn't need an epilogue and all that shit and yeah
> 
> the next thing will be up very soon, a multi-chap Frerard fic that i'm super excited for, so i hope to hear from ya there 
> 
> thanks for reading this :) it was fun

Brendon forced himself out of bed early the next day. Pete had taken him home so he wouldn’t have to be away from Patrick too long, and Brendon totally understood, but leaving the warmth of Ryan’s beaded the comfort of Ryan’s presence had nearly sent him into tears. It was almost scary, how attached he was to Ryan. He knew he shouldn’t be this dependent on the man, knew that he should pull away again, go back to Sarah and Dallon, lose himself in that much safer life, because at least, with them, he wasn’t tempted to sin so completely.

And he wasn’t in so much danger of falling in love when he was with those people who lived through drugs. Brendon hated the drugs, he did, he hated seeing Sarah on them, because she became so distant and empty and like a zombie. Same with Dallon, even though he didn’t get high that often. And whenever Sarah got high, Breezy got high, and they’d make out, and then Hals and Haley would come over, and there’d be fucking porn happening in front of Brendon as he pretended to shoot up so no one would make fun of him. He hated when he refused the drugs, and everyone looked at him like he was the one making the bad life decisions. Brendon stood firmly by his decision to stay sober beyond anything but alcohol.

He didn’t have many options, though. Pete and Patrick were at the hospital. Brendon had missed so many fucking things, he felt like the shittiest person alive. Patrick was getting his surgery today to remove the tumor. It would destroy his voice. He wouldn’t be able to sing again, was the estimate, but everyone sort of agreed that not being able to sing to the same ability as Patrick had had was preferable to death. Everyone felt that except Patrick, that was. Brendon just didn’t want to be in an empty home.

Brendon hadn’t wanted to get up early, though. Not as much as he hadn’t wanted to live Ryan, but enough to make this something horrible all together. It was so early, too early, five in the morning, and cold as death outside. He, again, knew that he needed new shoes. It hadn’t snowed in a while, but the world was still wet. He was stepping through ice as he moved. It rained during the day, then froze over night. Brendon never wanted to learn to drive out here. He wouldn’t handle the ice and the people and the city well. It just wasn’t something he wanted.

Brendon dropped into a puddle instead of ice, and was pissed in the middle of his relief. Of course he’d step in the one puddle that wasn’t icy, and soak his already ratty shoes. He fucking hated this city, sometimes, but it was so much better than home. He believed in the possibilities of this city more than he ever believed in New York’s. He knew New York was a broken city full of air headed, ignorant people who thought they could “make it.” As someone who had grown up there, he knew they couldn’t make it. No one could make it. No one would ever be happy with wherever they reached. Humans were selfish and always wanted more.

Except Ryan.

Ryan was just happy to be alive. 

Brendon could tell. He could see it in the way Ryan smiled at people, at Pete, at him. Ryan was like him, too. Something happened to you when you lived on the streets and begged for food, something like being lower than low. Brendon wasn’t stupid—he wasn’t going to compare it to the hell soldiers went through, or the loneliness orphans felt, but he knew it was a special type of broken that he and Ryan had become. He knew that he and Ryan understood how careless and cruel humans could be, how easily they could turn their backs on the starving, begging people, living at their feet. Brendon had been at the mercy of everyday people, and most had turned their backs on him, pretended he hadn’t existed, or wasn’t worth their time. He and Ryan knew how much humanity really valued a life.

It was a sobering reality, one that Brendon wasn’t content to live in. He liked Ryan, though, because Ryan had seemed to forgiven the city for letting him starve to the point of suicide. Ryan didn’t hate the city, and lived in it, thrived in it, enjoyed the city that had nearly killed him. Brendon hated how easily Ryan had forgiven the city, because the city didn’t deserve to be forgiven by someone as good and beautiful as Ryan. Ryan was a fucking angel and deserved to have the city beg on its knees for Ryan to just give it the light of day again. Brendon was vehement about that. He needed Ryan to feel like he was worth something. Like he was worth the city’s worship. Like he was worth all the love Brendon could give him.

Brendon topped walking, torn from his sinful thoughts, and looked up. 

He was at Sarah’s apartment building, and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk the other way.

“Hey, B!”

Brendon turned and saw Sarah was standing by Dallon’s car with Hals and Breezy, but not Haley. 

“We’re going to Jeremy’s now,” Sarah told him, and Brendon was amazed that all of them were so awake an alive this early in the morning. He’d always seen druggie teenagers as lazy people who slept in until the sun was above middle ground. Which was a mean though, but Brendon was feeling rather cynical today. He’d give anything to be back in bed with Ryan.

Then he saw Dallon again, and remembered the way Dallon and touched him. Brendon’s whole body heated in shame, and again, he wished he could find a bridge to throw himself off of. He couldn’t believed he’d let the other boy touch him so intimately. He’d promised he would never, ever let a man touch him, would never become so horribly tainted by such sin. But he’d become puddy in Dallon’s hands, and it disgusted him. Brendon disgusted himself. He couldn’t believe he’d been seduced so easily by sin, by the fucking devil. He didn’t have drugs or alcohol either, so he couldn’t blame it on intoxication and lowered inhibitions. Brendon hated himself and everything he had ever done.

But as he walked towards the car, he realized he hated the way he thought, more.

. . .

At Jeremy’s fantastic shithole, Brendon turns in his cash and doesn’t mention how he’d nearly died. He hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t even said a word to Sarah, which was odd, because Brendon used to be in the habit of telling Sarah everything back when she meant something other than terrifying suggestions and bad decisions that he would probably regret for the rest of his life.

Brendon wished he’d never agreed to go get coffee for everyone that day.

There was a new crowd in the house, a whole bunch of people Brendon didn’t recognize and didn’t want to know. At least a hundred people, from what Brendon could tell, all shouting and laughing and doing something illegal, whether it be for age or spite. Brendon hunched his shoulders and hid under his hood, not wanting to be noticed. Sarah took his hand, though, and led him through the body. Brendon caught glimpses of nudity against the walls through his peripherals and shuddered. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to condemn anyone for any sort of life, so he didn’t, but this wasn’t what he wanted in the few years he had on this earth. Brendon couldn’t agree with or want this debauchery. The more he was around this sexual and moral chaos, he found himself wanting to be home, with Pete and Ryan, more and more.

Sarah led him through everything, to Jeremy, who was handing off some white tablets of whatever drug he was also selling. Brendon hoped it was something as harmless as ecstasy and nothing sinister like he’d seen in his Health class back in high school. Brendon wondered if he should have been focusing on a legitimate future beyond selling drugs. He hadn't’ thought about what he wanted be since leaving New York.

The thought saddened him, and he looked around for some form of alcohol. 

He’d never had that urge before. But when in Rome, right?

“Hey,” Jeremy greeted, sounding stoned out go his mind. He was leaning against the counter of the kitchen after having handed over the drugs to a boy who looked like he hadn’t eaten a thing in years. “You’ve got the money, right?”

“One of my buyers fell out,” Brendon said before handing him the money and the drugs he had left over. The guy who nearly killed him was meant to buy his usual three, meaning Brendon was missing out on a good six hundred bucks, but he still had the drugs that he was supposed to sell. Brendon knew he would be short on the cash, but he’d give back the drugs to prove that he hadn’t skimmed.

Jeremy looked on mildly displeased by this. “First time,” he said, looking over the small roll of cash Brendon had given him. They were mostly twenties and hundreds, though, so Brendon wasn't worried. He knew that he would do better next time.

Jesus, Brendon, no.

Brendon shuddered and made to leave, to get away from these poisonous people, because this wasn’t what he wanted. He didn't want to be reduced to this, left to this life of killing people with narcotics and stimulants and encouraging horrible addiction. Brendon didn’t want to be a drug dealer.

But then Jeremy called him back to attention and handed Brendon his cut. Brendon looked down and saw he had nearly five hundred dollars. Brendon stared at the money like he wasn’t sure if it was real.

“You’ll get a hell of a lot more once you start picking up and selling more,” Jeremy said absently as he leafed through what he had kept. “I don’t trust you enough to start keeping your own cut on your own, but I think I’m cool with Sarah doing it. Takes out the middle man. Makes shit easier.” Jeremy nodded to him. “You did pretty well for the first time. Never would have penned a Mormon freak like you to be any good at this, but…” He shrugged.

Brendon looked to Sarah, suddenly realizing that Sarah had told Jeremy things Brendon hadn’t wanted just anyone to know.

Oh.

That was a sobering thought.

The money didn’t mean as much now that Brendon considered betrayal.

But Sarah smiled brightly at him, looking reminiscent of how she’d been when they met, and Brendon couldn’t deny that, after everything, she was still beautiful and bright. Brendon wondered if he needed to stop focusing on the wrong she’d done, and figure out how he could be happy again, through her. After all, what he wanted with Ryan could never exist. Even if Brendon was weak to temptation, Ryan wasn’t. Ryan would resist. So Brendon was just better off being with Sarah, right?

“You did so good!” Sarah exclaimed as she pulled him back into the crowd. She shoved an amber liquid inside a red solo cup into Brendon’s hand, and he saw that it was the same color as Ryan’s eyes. Brendon threw it back, whatever it was, and cringed as it slid down his throat like battery acid. Maybe it was battery acid.

“I’m really proud you, Brendon,” Sarah said softly, moving Brendon’s arm aside to press against his front, a tantalizing promise that Brendon didn’t actually want to be made. But he wasn’t going to push her away. “Dallon told me all about the fun you two were gonna have. That you got pulled away.” She smiled, and Brendon was becoming a little nervous. “We know that you’re good with guys and girls, so…”  She led him upstairs and into one of the bedrooms. Brendon saw it was the one with the hole in the floor, the hole he’d seen in the ceiling the last time he’d been here. There was a dingy mattress, and the whole room smelled like fish and and hair spray. There were sheets thrown haphazardly on the mattress and a bunch of throw pillows that varied between old and new, but all having seen better days.

Dallon was standing by the mattress, and Breezy was sitting atop it. She wasn’t wearing pants or a shirt, and was waiting in her underwear. Dallon was also shirtless and looked back to Brendon expectantly.

Brendon’s stomach clenched in anxiety, and he hoped this wasn’t going to be what he thought it was.

Dallon snorted. “He looks pretty nervous, Smiles. Think this is a good idea?”

“He can do it,” Sarah said confidently, a hand on Brendon’s hip, slipping under his shirt to burn his skin like the sun. And not the warm touch of the sun that relaxed you and made you sleepy. The touch of the sun that caused cancer. Brendon couldn’t help but think of Patrick.

Dallon snorted, then strode towards Brendon. “I know you got a phone message, but I really feel like you pussy-ed out and fucking ran out. Blue balls isn’t nice, especially after you get blown.” Dallon reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Brendon’s hair. “But hey, I’ll forgive you if you let me fuck you.”

Brendon felt cold.

“C’mon, baby,” Sarah prodded. Brendon tore his eyes from Dallon in front of him to look down at Sarah. She was looked to him with wide, hopeful eyes, and Brendon was arrested by how blue they were. “It’ll be with Breezy too, so there won’t be all dick. That’s what bothers you, right?” She smiled like she understood him. “I get that you’re not happy with who you are, so, I-I thought you’d be a lot more comfortable if I was here too. And I mean— I’m pretty hot.” Her smile became a grin. “Not a bad tradeoff, right?”

Brendon really didn’t want to sleep with any of them. Not really. But again, he wasn’t going to have Ryan, and this was what Sarah wanted. Sarah had been pretty good to him, aside from a few things. He was trying to remain positive, of course, because that was the best way to buck up and get shit done, right? Brendon took in a deep, shaky breath, then nodded. But words weren’t coming to him, so he turned and pressed a kiss to Sarah’s lips, a chaste touch that allowed him to avoid the sliminess of her lipgloss. Sarah smiled against his mouth, and Brendon felt at least a little accomplishment, happy he wasn’t just outright failing anyone.

There was a hand on his hip, and Brendon was pulled from Sarah’s mouth by another hand. He met Breezy’s lips with surprise, and was happy she didn’t taste like plastic fruit. He could taste lipstick, knowing what it tasted like from when he tried on his mother’s color when he was younger. Breezy parted her lips to coax Brendon’s mouth open, and this was pretty easy, even when her tongue met his and pushed past, exploring. He could handle kissing, he could handle kissing girls especially. But then Dallon nudged Breezy carefully aside, because he obviously loved her no matter who he slept with, and tore into Brendon’s mouth, biting his lip and sucking on is tongue and pulling noises from Brendon’s throat. He didn’t like how Dallon was the one who could make him lose his ability to keep it together. He didn’t want to be gay.

Dallon wrapped his arms around Brendon’s waist and literally lifted him off his feet. His grip was tight and almost painful around Brendon’s ribs, and then Brendon was carried and dropped onto the bed. The three other people loomed above him, and Brendon felt oddly like a lamb to the slaughter. He wrapped his arms around his body to try and protect himself in a useless way. Sarah actually laughed when she saw that.

“How cute,” Dallon snorted. “Brendon, really? We’re not fucking rapists or whatever. Just say no.”

Brendon didn’t want to say no, because he knew he’d be made fun of.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Let’s do this.”

Breezy hummed a random tune under her breath and lowered herself onto the mattress gracefully, splaying her arms out from where she lied beside Brendon. Her breasts were right at Brendon’s shoulder, and he couldn’t stop staring. They looked soft? Maybe. Brendon had never seen much of an appeal. He didn’t like staring at cleavage or fantasizing about groping those sacks of fat. He wasn’t attracted to much about the female body, now that he was beginning to be able to admit these things.

Breezy turned her hips towards Brendon, thighs bent over one another. Brendon looked away, breaking the eye contact because he was too nervous to keep it. Breezy reached out, her acrylic nails gently moving across Brendon’s jaw, like she wanted his attention, but Brendon was too skittish to give it. Also, Dallon was stepping out of his pants, and he wasn’t wearing underwear of any kind. 

His cock hung flaccid in plain view of Brendon, and that did a lot more for him than breasts ever had. His mouth fell open and he just kinda stared at Dallon’s body, wondering what Ryan looked like naked. Probably a lot better than this because Ryan wasn’t a dead end drug addict.

“Such a sausage lover,” Breezy said in a soft, lilting voice, running a single nail over Brendon’s clavicle. “I’d be jealous if I didn’t know Dallon drools over my feet.” She wiggled her toes as if to demonstrate. Brendon glanced to Dallon and saw he was mostly staring at Breezy’s hips, so she was half right. “I mean, I’m not against sharing,” Breezy almost whispered, her voice deep with smoke, and high with femininity. Brendon could imagine people being attracted to her voice alone. He wondered if Dallon was attracted to her voice.

There was a light slap to his face, and Brendon flinched. 

“Pay attention,” Breezy growled.

Brendon wanted off the bed.

But then Sarah suddenly sat down in Brendon’s lap, straddling his torso and smiling impishly down at him. “Ever had a four-way, B?”

“Orgy is better,” Dallon said snippily. “Three-way is appropriate with three. After that, it’s an orgy. So we’re calling this an orgy.”

“God, it doesn’t even matter, Dallon!” Sarah huffed, eyes narrowed in sharp anger.

Dallon flipped her off and went to the corner of the room, bending down. Brendon stared at his body, eyes glued to Dallon’s cock and balls, torn. He wanted to be aroused, and he almost was by Dallon, but he was… he was scared. Of Breezy. And Dallon, and even a little but of Sarah. He wasn’t meant for these kinds of things.

Dallon bent back up after snorting something. He turned around with dilated pupils and white powder around his nose, a lazy, almost cruel smile tugging at his lips. He came back over to the bed, then stood on the mattress, feet at Brendon’s head, staring down at him. The underside of Dallon’s cock was obscuring Brendon’s view of his face, and Brendon was so horribly out of his depth.

Sarah hummed something under her breath, a soft tune Brendon dimly recognized from his mother. He didn’t want to think about his mother right now. He really didn’t want to think about Sarah either. Brendon took in a deep breath, then reached out to pull at the bottom of Sarah’s shirt. Then he tugged it upwards, wanting to show that he was going to be a part of this, willingly. He was just going to have to find the right moments to shut his eyes and think of Ryan. Ryan would get him through this, so he wouldn’t have to lose his friends.

Sarah giggled and ran her hands up and down her torso once the shirt was gone, and Brendon stared at her chest. Her bra was purple and lacy and it didn’t match the panties Brendon could see, peaking up from her pants. Those were black and thin, like a thong or something. Brendon had always assumed girls liked to make their underwear match if they planned on having sex. Either Sarah didn’t care so much about being with Brendon, or she did things like this a lot. Brendon wasn’t sure if either was comforting or disarming.

“You’ve fucked a girl, Brendon,” Sarah said in a low, simpering tone. “You fucked her good, right? Behind the school, where anyone could catch you.” She took Brendon’s hands and pulled them up her torso to clutch at her breasts. Brendon flushed red, his brain finally catching up to what was happening once he felt the soft flesh of Sarah’s breasts. He stared at where his hands were touching, brain activity falling short. Everything was slowly down and his mouth tasted sour.

“This is gonna feel so good for you,” Sarah giggled. She moved in Brendon’s lap like she was trying to simulate something much more suggestive, and Brendon sucked in a gasp of breath. Regardless of what his hands were touching, a warm body was a warm body, and Brendon was a horny teenager. Touching her felt nice, and having her touch him was even better.Breezy was still feeling the parts of his chest that she could reach.

“I fucking want this off,” Dallon suddenly said, dropping onto his knees and tearing Brendon’s shirt from his body. Brendon felt the cold air hit his body like knives. He flinched and looked up at Dallon with a wounded expression, wanting to know why he’d done something like that so harshly, but suddenly the head of Dallon’s cock was pressed incessantly against his lips, and Brendon didn’t know what to do.

“Open your mouth,” Breezy murmured, tracing a smily face into Brendon’s belly. He was suddenly aware of how he wasn’t at all toned and touch like Dallon was. Brendon was all soft and pale and weak. Dallon looked like he got in a lot of fights. “Spread those pretty lips for my baby. Your lips were born to have a cock between them.”

Brendon shuddered and did as told.

A sick part of himself thrilled at the new taste. It was bitter and salty and was too heavy on his tongue, but he liked it. He hated that he liked it, jesus, and he was kinda tired of hating that he hated liking something. Brendon was slowly beginning to realize, as he taste Dallon’s cum on his tongue, that he really, really liked this. As in, too much to really deny himself. The taste was hard to forget, and Brendon moaned softly as he fumbled his tongue around, wanting to figure out how to get more of this delicious weight in his mouth. He didn’t care if the others laughed at him at this point. He just wanted to feel this down his god damn throat.

Someone’s hand came and rested in Brendon’s hair, and Brendon tore his eyes open to look up at whoever it was. Breezy was leering down at him like she knew something he didn't, and Brendon had to shut his eyes again to pretend she wasn’t there. He tilted his neck back further, testing to see what he could do wth Dallon’s cock. Only the head was in his mouth, and it just wasn't enough to satiate him. And worked his tongue into the slit on instinct, wanting to taste more, and Dallon let out this throaty moan that Brendon felt through Dallon’s body. He moaned back and tilted his neck back even further, so his throat was a straight line for Dallon to fit through. Oddly enough, his gag reflex never once came into play as the head slid to the back of his tongue. He could feel the heat of Dallon’s arousal filling his maw so completely that he could barely even swallow, but when he did, Dallon groaned a bit louder, and fuck yeah, Brendon really, really loved this.

“God, a fucking natural,” Dallon groaned, and everything was going okay, it was going well, until Sarah started to try to take off Brendon’s pants. He froze, no longer focused on Dallon’s dick, and tried to look down his body to where Sarah was undressing him, but his eyes didn’t work like that, and he couldn’t see that far. It hurt his brain to force his eyes to do that, and he had no choice but to give up on trying to see and just let it happen. 

There was another hand on his dick, with sharp edges, and that had to be Breezy. Three hands stroked and touched and explored, and Sarah giggled, whispering one thing to Breezy, who whispered back, and Brendon heard something about “tiny,” and “small,” and “cute,” and god, this, this wasn’t fun anymore. He didn’t like this. He tried to squirm his hips to get the hands away from his dick, and he knew he wasn’t anything impressive, but he didn’t like people laughing at him, either. Brendon almost pulled off Dallon’s cock, but Dallon suddenly rocked his hips forward and forced himself further down Brendon’s throat, and this didn’t feel so good anymore. There were those hands tugging at his dick, harsh and quick and not even close to enough lubrication to keep the skin from chafing. He whimpered around Dallon and tried to pull his throat back while getting his hips away from the girls at the same time. 

Panic was welling in his chest, like a grinder or something, making it even harder for him to breath, dick down his throat aside. His skin was protesting the touch of the girls, and he figured this would have felt a lot better if he’d been on something. Cocaine or mary jane or just alcohol, something to numb him. He couldn’t keep it up. Brendon shut his eyes and thought of Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, but even that wasn’t working. All he could think about was how Sarah and Breezy’s hands were starting to hurt, and he really could’t breathe. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he had a feeling none of them noticed.

Brendon’s mind started to panic way before he actually did. He didn’t know he wasn’t actually getting enough air because he was far too distressed by the pain and the rest of the pain. He squirmed, then moved his hips, wanting to get those hands away, and wanting that cock away from his throat. It hurt, it hurt a lot, and Brendon started calling out a name, started calling for Pete and Ryan. He was muffled by the dick, fucking obviously, and his chest began to heave wildly with the effort to breathe at all. Brendon reached up and pushed at Dallon’s legs, his hips, trying to get him away, but nothing was working. Dallon was apparently enjoying himself too much, and like the girls even cared. They were probably making out or something more distracting— otherwise, they wouldn’t be bending his dick in half.

Oh god, _Brendon couldn’t breathe._

He started to cry out, almost screaming Rayn’s name for help, then dug his nails in Dallon’s thigh, scratching at the skin.

“Oh what the fuck?!”

Dallon pulled his dick out, then hit Brendon across the face, actually punched him, hard. Brendon cried out in pain and picked out blindly. His foot something solid, and a girl cried out something or another, a sort of protest that Brendon didn’t understand, and he really didn’t care. He crawled away from the bodies he couldn’t really put a name to anymore. He held his throat, coughing raggedly, sucking in air like a fucking vacuum. He dimly noticed that he was crying. 

“What the fuck, Brendon, you fucking piece of shit!” Dallon snouted. “Fucking cocksucker, if you left a mark, I’m gonna fucking kill you!” He got up from the bed and bent over, obviously checking out his inner thigh, looking for something. Brendon whimpered, then stood as well. But he walked right past Dallon after collecting his pants and pulling them on with his shirt, then literally ran out the door. Ran down the stairs. Ran out of the fucking house and into the street and didn’t stop running until he couldn’t breathe again.

He looked around suburbia, then looked to the city, and started walking towards the familiar, cold buildings.

. . .

Brendon was on the streets again.

He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t gone home to Pete and Patrick, or gone to stay with Ryan and Mikey, except he really could explain it.

He was ashamed.

He’d caught his reflection in a window after nearly two hours of walking, and had recoiled at what he’d seen. Recoiled at his own face. There wasn’t that much different, save a bruise that covered his lower cheek and jaw from Dallon’s fist. Everything else was the same, save his eyes. He looked tainted, Brendon knew that was the only word for it. He’d given in to his sinful desires and had ended up burned for it, friendless and empty, and thusly, homeless, because that was what he deserved. 

He had been sleeping in an alley near the one he used to occupy for nearly three days now, and was falling back into the rhythm of being homeless like a convict being put back in jail. It was cold. His shoes were horrible. He didn’t even have his jacket this time, he’d left it back at Jeremy’s. There was a distinct lack of clothing covering his entire body, with only a t-shirt and jeans. He was so very grateful that spring was finally showing its face, though it was overshadowed by his fear of the wind.

Brendon was so very hungry, actually. He’d started begging again, wasn’t as ashamed of stooping so low as he’d been before. Now, he just wanted to eat something. Offering his mouth for people to use was a pipe dream, but Brendon knew he could let them fuck him, and he’d make even more money. Men loved to fuck nameless, questionably young boys in alley ways and toss money at their used bodies. Brendon just knew that was a thing.

He curled up between a large dumpster and what used to be the ceiling to some shed. It was a makeshift tent-slash-lean-to, and it was better than the box Brendon’d had before. He’d found a large beach towel and used it as a blanket at night. It was still too cold for any insects to survive, but he was dreading the rainy season coupled with warmth. 

At least he didn’t have to be scared of hypothermia anymore. Or, at least, for the rest of the year.

Brendon was trying to be positive.

He looked up and saw that it was going to rain again. Everything smelt like sewer and drugs and regrets. He wasn’t sure if anyone had gone looking for him, and he honestly doubted anyone would think to look at all. He knew Patrick had to be recovering from the surgery, if it had even worked. They were probably too preoccupied with that to think about the dumb kid they’d picked up off the streets going back to the streets. Fuck, Brendon had done this to himself, after all. This was what he deserved, because it had been his own doing.

Brendon was going to kill himself with concrete and cold stares.

It hurt, really. To watch people walk by him without giving a shit. He’d been fine with it before, back when he’d felt like shit, been treated like shit, and saw everything as shit. But knowing Ryan and Pete had reminded him of when he was loved by his parents, by his old friends, when he was just loved in general. Brendon had been reminded of what it felt like to be cared about and needed and wanted, and now? He was being treated like he was filth again. Fucking again. Brendon was a human being, for the love of god! He deserved to be loved.

Brendon started to cry, but luckily, it started to rain. 

It made things a little easier.

Made it easier to let himself go.

Brendon was hungry, and he missed his home.

He missed his lavender jacket.

. . .

_A long ways away, Ryan lied awake, knowing everything was wrong._

_He didn’t like that they hadn’t heard from Brendon in three days._

_His last moments with the poor kid had been holding him in bed while he coped with something that he was too young to be tortured over._

_Ryan knew he was gay._

_He knew that, sometimes, Brendon couldn’t look him in the eye, and he knew that was because Brendon was struggling with an attraction that he either didn’t understand, or did understand, but resented. Ryan wasn’t sure how to help Brendon, though sometimes it seemed like Brendon just needed Ryan to either be there, or be absent, and Ryan didn’t mind._

_He liked the kid._

_He_ really _liked the kid._

_And yeah, Ryan was sixteen while he was twenty-four, that was a whopping eight years of illegal action lawsuits between them, and that’s why Ryan hadn’t done a thing. Still—it wasn’t entirely unfeasible that he and Brendon could be a thing. A real thing. A real, good thing. A real, good thing that would be consensual and totally legal. Brendon had a birthday in April. Legal age for sex between adults was seventeen. Ryan could wait._

_If it was mutual._

_If it was okay._

_If he ever found Brendon._

_Ryan lied in bed and felt restless with anxiety._

_He stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about the boy that was missing. He could only hope Brendon was off with that girl Sarah, getting up to no good. He prayed Brendon was having sex and doing drugs and being a stupid kid, having the time of his life. Ryan didn’t like that sort of thing at all— the smell of alcohol alone made his skin crawl and bring back memories of everything he didn’t want to have in his head. But Ryan wasn’t judging Brendon at all. He understood that this sort of thing was one of those “to each their own” things. Ryan just wanted Brendon safe and happy._

_… His instincts were telling him that Brendon was anything but safe and happy right now._

_Ryan stood from his bed, put on his shoes, and tugged on a jacket._

_He was going to look for Brendon._

_He wandered the city for the whole night, heading for the areas that the homelessness was more prevalent. He walked past the homeless and gave them what change he had, even bought a burger for one woman and her dog, smiling at the ones who smiled back, and smiling at the ones who didn’t._

_He revisited where he’d lived on the streets for two years and found a lavender jacket. Ryan picked it up and turned it over in his hands, feeling a little sick to know that some girl had been stuck out there without anything to protect her from the cold. He put the jacket in the bag he’d brought along that had an umbrella in it, and decided he would turn it into some shelter that had a use for these things._

_Ryan kept looking._

_He walked down street after street, looking through alley way after alley, each absence of Brendon bringing more relief and simultaneous anxiety. Because while Brendon wasn’t out here in the streets, suffering and starving, he wasn’t at home, either, and wasn’t anywhere that Ryan could name. So that meant that relief was meaningless and wasted. He still had to find Brendon._

_Ryan glanced down an alley, and saw some poor soul huddled against a dumpster with no other source of cover, save a ratty, metal sleet to make a shitty little tent, but it wasn’t doing much good. The person was soaked to the bone. He couldn’t see if they were shaking, but he knew the person had to be. Ryan’s heart tore a little, as it had been this whole fucking night, and he ran across the street to a twenty-four hour diner he’d been going between when finding people in need of some sort of comfort. Ryan bought a coffee and a sub sandwich, then darted back across the street, closing his umbrella despite the downpour from above, ready to offer that to the person as well. It was the least he could do._

. . .

Brendon was soaked to the bone and shaking from the cold.

He was curled up under the metal shed top and had discovered it wasn’t actually wide enough to protect him from slanted rain. The rain was coming down in sheets, and he wasn’t able to get close enough to the wall to protect himself from anything. A homeless man had stolen his towel while threatening him with shards from a beer bottle, and Brendon was crying even worse, now. He wished he could take back everything he'd ever done and said, because there had to have been a sort of domino affect from one bad thing that had escaped his lips that led up to this.

Oh wait, yeah.

Telling his parents he was gay.

Brendon wished he hadn’t been so stupid to think that unconditional love existed. Hell, love barely existed at all, beyond the need for someone else to do something for you. Jeremy had only wanted him to sell drugs, Dallon had only wanted Brendon to suck his dick, Sarah had only wanted his devotion through manipulation. Pete and Ryan aside, love wasn’t real, not from anyone that you sent a smile to, or worked for affection from. Brendon had no idea why, out of all the people in his life, Pete and Ryan were the ones to care the most, but it was upsetting. He’d been the cruelest to them, yet they were the kindest to him. He didn’t deserve the love they had showed him, and it just added to the list of reasons as to why Brendon was a piece of shit.

Everything had fallen apart so quickly, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Brendon sobbed, finally losing his resolve and strength and just fucking everything. He covered his mouth with both hands and cried earnestly, curling his knees into his chest tighter to try and keep warm and make his body feel like it was safer, somehow. He was painfully aware of how exposed he was to anyone and anything, and just missed the roof over his head.

Footsteps entered his line of sight, which was trained on the floor, and they stopped in front of Brendon. He was scared to look up, so he wasn’t going to look up at all. He was scared he’d see a police officer, or a civilian who wanted to fuck with him or fuck him, or another transient ready to fight Brendon for the spot he’d claimed. Brendon actually went so far as to just his eyes, in complete denial that someone was there.

“I brought you an umbrella,” the voice said, and jesus, it was familiar, so horribly familiar that every ache in Brendon’s body melted away when he heard it. He knew who it was, and that made him even more unwilling to open his eyes. “Coffee and a sandwich, too, both heated so you can warm up. I-I saw a convenience store just down the way. Do you have a blanket?”

Fuck, Ryan was too good of a person.

Brendon had to show his face, he had to, he couldn’t let Ryan show such generosity to him. Someone else out there deserved that kindness way more than Brendon.

Brendon lifted his head and met Ryan’s eyes with such broken sadness that his throat started to close again, and he was close to crying more. Luckily, Ryan wouldn’t be able to notice with all the rain.

Ryan’s expression was almost comical. His mouth fell open and his eyes went wide, staring at Brendon like he was seeing something he couldn’t understand. Brendon didn’t know if Ryan had been actively seeking Brendon out, but he knew that, either way, this had to be somewhat serendipitous for Ryan. Unless he hadn’t wanted to find Brendon. Then this would just be upsetting for him.

“Brendon,” Ryan breathed, dropping to his knees in front of him, and Brendon wanted to stop him from getting his jeans muddy, but it was too late. Brendon reached forward and tugged at the end of Ryan’s jeans to try and get him to stand again, thinking uselessly.

“Brendon, jesus, w-why are you out here?” Ryan asked urgently, taking Brendon’s hand into his, checking over his fingers. “Jesus, you’re cold. What are you doing out here? What the hell is this? You need to come home, Brendon, Pete’s had constant anxiety since you disappeared. Come home with me.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Brendon whimpered. “I don’t deserve to know you. Or have you.”

“What are you talking about?” Ryan demanded, visibly confused. Ryan reached forward with his free hand to touch Brendon’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

Brendon hadn’t known that. “Please,” he choked out, crying again. “Just, just g-go away. I’m fine. I-I’m okay. I’m better off out here, okay? I’ve made too many mistakes, don't too many stupid things. I just… I deserve to be here…”

“That’s stupid,” Ryan deadpanned. “Don’t be as stupid as the shit you’re staying. Stand up and come with me. Right now, o-or I’m calling someone to help me. I’ll call Frank, okay? And I’ll tell Frank you’re being a f-fucking asshole, and he’ll bring you home whether you want to or not. So come with me now, or that’s the end of it.”

Brendon shuddered. “I-I think I could fall in love with you. And it scares me.” He was done trying to think that he could survive his own life. Sarah and Dallon and Breezy had left him empty and dead. He wasn’t fighting anymore, wasn’t fighting at all. If he were still fighting, he would be home with Pete. “I don’t know what to do, Ryan. I-I got kicked out cause I’m gay. I’m g-gay, I’m fucking gay!” He started sobbing, now shaking from more than the cold. “W-what do I do? Help me…”

Ryan surged forward and kissed Brendon in the freezing rain. It was wet, yeah, but Ryan wasn’t the one that was wet. He didn’t taste like chemicals and fake cherries and lewd intentions, he just… he tasted like the idea of peace. Of no anxiety, no problems, just utter bliss. But a person couldn’t physically taste like that, and Brendon felt stupid about being so focused on what was possible in a person that he wasn’t kissing back. Not like he should be.

He reached up with cold fingertips and held onto Ryan’s jaw, struggling to kiss him back like Sarah had taught him to. When Ryan pulled away, Brendon gasped, “Dallon made me suck his dick a-and I didn’t like it.”

He glanced up at Ryan through his lashes to see his words had made him really angry. 

“He did fucking what?” Ryan asked in a low voice. “Who the hell is Dallon? Why the hell was he…” Ryan pulled back, shaking his head, glaring at something. “Brendon, I-I’m going to ask you about this later, and we’re going to fucking talk, okay? We’re going to talk to pete. But for now? You just need to know that you _do not_ have to suck anyone’s dick or do anything sexual like that, or anything at all! Unless you really want to. And that’s it.”

Brendon just nodded. “A-are you mad at me?”

“Fuck, I just kissed you, Brendon,” Ryan sighed. “And that’s kinda a big fucking deal for me, okay? But look— it’s cold and raining, and you’ve been out here for days, I’m guessing. Let’s get you home and get you something to eat.”

On the walk back, Ryan gave away the coffee, food, and umbrella to a homeless woman.

He was way too good of a person.

. . .

“Patrick’s cancer free,” Pete told Brendon once they were home and all the niceties and obligatory assurances were out of the way. “He’s recovering, woke up for a few hours before, talked like a fucking smoker, but he’s okay. It’s cute. He’s gonna start vocal therapy.”

Brendon smiled at Pete over the turkey leg he was devouring. He licked his fingers cleaned of mashed potatoes and caught Ryan staring at him in his peripherals. It was weird. To be wanted by someone, especially someone like Ryan. The way he was looking at him wasn’t like the way Sarah did, or Dallon did. Ryan looked at him like he wanted to do things to Brendon, _not_ have things done to him _by_ Brendon. It was nice. It was. Brendon didn’t mind Ryan’s stares like he had shuddered under Sarah’s and Dallon’s. Ryan cared about Brendon, not what Brendon could do for him. That was what mattered.

“You’re gonna be staying here, right?” Pete asked after Brendon had been silent for so long. “No more running away?”

Brendon hesitated, then ran the mile. “Sarah got me to sell drugs. I-I did that for a while, a month or so. One of the guys I was selling to tried to rob me and held me at gunpoint, then crashed the car we were in. Th-that’s why I was hurt that one time. Then, the dealer guy collected a-and Dallon and Sarah tried to get my to have an orgy, b-but it sucked. I hated it. So I ran out of the house and stayed out there cause I was scared you’d…” He trailed off, gnawing on his lower lip. “I, I was scared you’d turn your back on me.”

“That’s stupid,” Pete sighed. “… Selling drugs. You sold drugs.” He sighed. “Brendon, that… that’s fucking dumb. That was dumb. Don’t do something so stupid like that again, okay? Jesus, even if it’s the money that you want, you can tell me and I’ll give you money, as much as you need so you don’t sell fucking drugs again, jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” Brendon mumbled.

“And you and Ryan?” Pete smirked a bit. “Really? I mean, I’ve known about your thing for Ryan, and knew about Ryan’s thing for you, which I discouraged like a decent adult, because damn, that age difference. But, then again…” Pete’s smirk became a little more lewd or suggestive or something that made Brendon feel like blushing. “Dude, okay, yeah. You’ve got red in your cheeks.” Pete chuckled and drank his coffee. “Just wait till your seventeen. Please.”

“Jesus, Pete,” Ryan groaned. “It was just a kiss.”

“Oh my god, you kiss?” Pete cackled and clapped his hands. “Fucking awesome! A crime of passion! If I were a better parent, I’d call the police and castrate you. But, you’re also kinda my kid? Cause I helped you out just as much as Brendon, and feel very much responsible for you, so, I’m not gonna do shit. I know you know about consent. Especially for Brendon.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” Ryan said.

“I’m right here,” Brendon huffed.

“Course you are, kiddo,” Pete chuckled. “Do you want to date Ryan?”

Brendon flushed deeper.

“Go easy on him, Pete,” Ryan said with a small smile. “It’s too early to be teasing him. Just let him eat and then we can get him to bed.”

“Only if you’re in bed with me,” Brendon said automatically.

Pete and Ryan both stared at him, and Brendon grinned to himself. It was a relief to let loose and be himself around his actual family.

Ryan grinned and scooted his chair closer to Brendon so he could lean against his side. Brendon pressed into the warmth and lost himself to the sensation of feeling nothing but peace.

This was good. 

This could work.

He wasn’t going to see Sarah ever again, and that made him too happy for words.

Ryan kissed his cheek, Pete was texting Patrick, and Brendon was stuffing his face.

Brendon took a long shower after that, one that felt so nice it made his toes curl. He put on these fluffy sweatpants he’d sorely missed the past three days, and crawled into bed shirtless, a little surprised when his bare chest met Ryan’s arm. But it was nice, especially when Ryan’s arm wrapped around Brendon’s naked torso and pulled him closer.

“There’s no legal age on cuddling,” was how Ryan justified it. 

Brendon was just overjoyed to be warm and happy because he’d never thought he would get this far, ever.

But he was happy. That was what mattered. And he wasn’t going to fall to temptation again. Maybe he was gay and living in sin, maybe he had just lost the friends that would have lasted him a lifetime if he’d just stuck it out, but he’d never really know for sure, and never really care, as long as Ryan was with him.

Brendon opened his eyes for a moment and looked around the semi-dark room, then frowned when he saw a flash of a familiar color. “What’s that?” he asked Ryan, sitting up. He could see something purple hanging out from Ryan’s bag. Ryan sat up too and looked around to see what Brendon was talking about.

“Oh, that?” he asked, just to clarify. “It’s some jacket I found outside in an alley when I was looking for you. It looked like it was in pretty good condition, aside from a little dirty, so I picked it up. Was gonna donate it. Why?” He frowned, as Brendon was crawling out of bed and approaching the bag like he was in a dream. “B? What’s wrong?”

Brendon went down on his knees in front of the bag and pulled out his lavender jacket. “… This used to be mine,” he told Ryan after long pause, letting his thumb move over the soft material of the jacket, Even through the mud and grime and stiffness, he could feel the promise in the cotton. “I got it form my sister. It was the only jacket I had when I ran away. I lost it during the storm, just before you found me.” He sat with the jacket in his hands, just processing what it meant.

Ryan was suddenly beside him, rubbing Brendon’s back. His palm was warm and comforting on Brendon’s skin. Neither said anything, because they both understood the subtle importance of the reunion.

If this wasn’t a sign that Brendon was exactly where he was supposed to be, with the exact people he was supposed to be around, Brendon would never believe in god again.


End file.
